Birdman Reflux

Benjamin Swardlick, one of our course members, wrote me from the UK on December 18th:
"5 dead prostitutes in Ipswitch, England. All the bodies found close together. The man in custody calls himself their driver... Says he helped them to hook up with drugs. I mean have ANY of these investigators read Birdman, this case is solved by Eng 193. Can't even believe the similarites. I'm staying tuned to figure out who plays Jack Caffery."

It's hard to tell who Caffery will turn out to be or if these women are going to get someone like that to help them. But here we are again, trying to honor the dead.

The Names:
Gemma Adams
Tania Nicol
Anneli Alderton
Paula Clennell
Annette Nicholls

And here we are again wondering why.

There's a compendium of information here. Some of the commentary is good, including Diane Taylor's piece on the vulnerability of sex workers and society's calloused stupidity about them. The case has stood Britain (or at least its press) on its head.

May they rest in peace. And have some justice in 2007.

Noir Goodbye

We've talked a lot about war coming home as one of noir culture's causes. I thought about this reading Donald Rumsfeld's remarks yesterday as he stepped down from his position of Secretary of Defense. The Los Angeles Times article today has him saying this:

A conclusion by our enemies that the United States lacks the will or the resolve to carry out missions that demand sacrifice and demand patience is every bit as dangerous as an imbalance of conventional military power. It may well be comforting to some to consider graceful exits from the agonies and, indeed, the ugliness of combat, but the enemy thinks differently.

Even if you're one of the O'Reilly Factor fans who thinks that the Iraq war went bad only because of media nay-sayers, the logic here should interest you. Rumsfeld acknowledges the war has become an agony. But any exit would comfort "the enemy," which is unnamed and unchanging - remember Mike Hammer's "nameless ones who kill people for the Great Whatzit." This is true even of "graceful" exits. What does graceful mean for Rumsfeld? Exiting after negotiation? Some form of agreement after which "enemies" smile and shake hands?

Noir goodbyes are always a kind of curse. They say, "I am the war god, and the rule of force. You embraced me, and then you fired me, because you are too weak to stick with the Way of Force. And now, without me, the enemy Force will destroy you."

Oh well. Goodbye anyway, Mr. Rumsfeld.

Greek Tragedy (Guest Story by Megan Somerville)

I could already feel the numbing effect that the marijuana never failed to deliver as I slowly exhaled lazy rings of smoke and sank deeper into the decaying foam of my ten-dollar EZ chair. My lips seemed to become separate entities altogether and I knew they were expressing a grin of deep satisfaction. I idly changed TV channels for no apparent reason since I could barely make out the pixilated images through the heavy cloud that had settled in my living room. Life was so much simpler as a college dropout. Or as a “student on temporary leave” as I so cunningly phrased it to my mother when she feigned concern. I’d arrived at Cal State Fullerton as an idealistic freshman four years ago as a double Criminal Law and Psychology major, intent on becoming a state prosecutor and saving the world one sleazy crook at a time. Unfortunately for the dream, my degree required real-life experience and after only 100 hours in the field, I was convinced that my justice crusade could never be accomplished under the powerful influence of the Man. Now a college senior and only 12 units away from my bachelor’s, I quit the game. Fuck it. Fuck them.
My roommate didn’t exactly support my new agenda. Melanie Summers was a straight-A student from right here in Fullerton, California. She was blonde, bubbly and a goddamn neat-freak. We were basically polar opposites. Mel was always scurrying around our two-bedroom apartment cleaning, decorating or adding artistic trinkets that she had ingeniously crafted. It had taken a hell of a lot of convincing and a bottle of Beringer’s White Zinfandel to even get her to agree to the ratty EZ chair I brought home from the thrift store last week as a celebration of my new found freedom. I knew the wine would do the trick-alcohol was our common thread. Our love of liquor and our revulsion of sororities were, in fact, two of the only things we had in common, but they made for a well-matched friendship. Mel was very clever, however, and had even tried using our sacred booze bond against me when I told her I was dropping out.
“Jackie DeLyn,” she’d said in a more condemning tone than my own mother, “you are going to regret this after just one week of being a couch potato.”
Mel had poured herself a glass of the white zin and handed me an extra strong mix of rum and coke while she continued to chastise me. I noticed she had even pulled out two shot glasses and a handle of Popov for later.
I quietly laughed to myself now as I recalled my über-domestic roommate attempting to get me drunk enough that night to re-enroll. That sneaky bitch. Too bad her own tolerance is so low that she was the one who ended up with the murderous hangover the following morning.
A hazy image on the TV followed by a morbidly disturbing announcement shocked me out of my muddled thoughts. The newscaster was solemnly describing the live video footage being broadcast onto my 20-inch screen from a building I recognized as being just down the street. In front of the Sigma Alpha Omega house on the corner of State College and Yorba Linda Boulevard were swarms of news vans trying to capture the best angle of the naked male corpse sprawled over the railing of the upstairs balcony. I was lucky enough to be watching the future Pulitzer Prize winning cameraman as he somehow broke through the crowd and secured a close up from right beneath the body. The first sickening shot was of the poor schmuck’s dick. It had been branded with very small, hard to decipher Greek letters: ΠΕΛ. This sight was all the more gruesome due to the fact that the branding had obviously been recently executed since the letters were surrounded by tiny red inflammations and the whole penis itself had gotten so swollen and deformed that it appeared more like an elephant’s dick than a human’s. I continued to watch the screen, grotesquely mesmerized, as the camera changed its focus from the groin to the face. Holy fucking Jesus, I knew this guy. His name was Joey Dillow (nicknamed Dildo by his oh-so clever fraternity brothers) and he happened to be my roommate’s “casually seeing each other” boyfriend. But nothing was ever just casual with Mel and if she knew about this, she was probably on the verge of an ultimate emotional breakdown. I had to find her.
I grabbed my keys and headed out to the car to start my city-wide search, but I didn’t have to look any further than the parking lot. Mel was sitting in the driver’s seat of her car, just staring at the blinking red light that threatened an alarm if anyone attempted to harm the shabby 1991 Honda Civic. I tapped the window and realized how unusual her demeanor was. No tears, no hyperventilating. Just completely quiet stoicism, as if she had simply accepted the situation and had decided to move on.
“I’m guessing you already know?” I said through the single-paned glass window. “Are you okay?”
She got out of the car, gave me a tight hug and attempted a sad smile. I don’t think I had ever seen Mel so tranquil. She was one of those people that tears up at Hallmark commercials and Lifetime movies.
“Yeah. I’m okay. Have you heard what the police are saying?” she asked.
“No, I’ve only seen a short live clip. Do they know how it happened?”
She let out an exasperated sigh and shook her head disapprovingly. “The cops think it could have been a hazing prank gone wrong. Joey had an extremely high blood alcohol level and the letters burned onto his…well, his member, were apparently made with branding irons from the iron mill out behind the frat house. They are taking his body to the lab right now for testing but the investigators believe it to be alcohol poisoning.”
She had reiterated all this information as if it were an oral report on some random current news clipping. How could she be so withdrawn? Even I was upset from this situation and I never even liked Joey. He was a crude, cocky, dim-witted jackass and I told him so on several occasions. In fact, I never understood Mel’s attraction to him at all. But he sure didn’t deserve this repulsive death.
“Seriously, Mel, are you all right?” I asked her with genuine concern. “You don’t seem too shaken up about all this.”
“That’s because I’m trying to figure out what really happened.” She suddenly had a determined look in her eyes that I didn’t recognize. “I don’t believe this hazing theory. Joey wasn’t even pledging anymore. It’s ridiculous. The police are just trying to sweep the whole thing under the rug.”
She may have had a point there. The Fullerton Police Department would do anything to protect their precious reputation amongst the other stellar towns that made up the infamous Orange County. This is the same Orange County that had become a symbol in the past few years of excessive money and frivolous, yet dramatic issues. From Newport Beach to Brea to its outer exterior in Oceanside, the real “OC” displayed all the stereotypes its television counterpart exploited. Multi-level shopping centers were as commonplace as the monstrous SUVs that maneuvered between them. Girls paraded through the CSUF campus in pink velour sweat suits advertising “Juicy” on their ass to imply that they had spent hundreds of dollars to be that comfortable as they chattered endlessly with their matching pink Razorphone companions. These expensively strategic displays were not exclusive to college age females either, since even the elementary students across the street could be seen prancing to school in skirts short enough to buy them a drink at the local sports bar. The upper crust society that I was surrounded by discouraged most high crime and prided itself in its reputation for safety, cleanliness and close proximity to perfection. I had no doubt the police were eager to show their capabilities by quickly solving Joey’s death and encouraging citizens to move on.
“Ok, so it wasn’t hazing. What was it then? Suicide?”
“Oh please, Jackie.” Mel rolled her eyes at my apparently ridiculous suggestion. “Joey was an officer on the fraternity board and was well on his way to graduating in only five years. He was murdered. No doubt about it.”
“Why the fuck would anyone want to murder Joey Dillow? He may have been a moron but he never hurt anybody that I know of.”
Mel was silent for just a moment before responding. “I don’t know why, I just have a feeling okay? And that’s where you come in, Roomie!”
“I don’t follow.” I said dryly.
“You have serious background in law, criminal procedure and the workings of the human brain. You would have had even more know-how had you not recently given it all up on some ‘psychological breakthrough.’” Damn. Even in crisis mode she could still find a way to speak her mind.
“Nonetheless,” she continued, “now you have endless amounts of spare time and I have decided to take advantage of that.”
“So you want me to investigate the supposed murder of your dead boyfriend even though the case is already being solved by professional detectives?” The girl had finally gone off the deep end.
“First of all, he was not my boyfriend. We were casually seeing each other.” Jesus. My bad. “And second, why not? I really believe that something is not right about Joey’s death and all I want is justice for him. He deserves it.” Mel really emphasized this last part before continuing. “Please help, Jackie. You could check things out super-subtly because no one would imagine a college student trying to investigate a real murder mystery. Maybe it would even motivate you to continue your studies!”
“No. Wait, scratch that. Fuck no.”
“Pleeeeeeease?” She pleaded and then cunningly added, “I’ll make you cookies and buy you a handle of Captain Mo’!” Mel smiled and hugged me enthusiastically. She knew she had won.

“Son of a bitch.” I thought to myself.
I was standing in front of the “Farm Frat,” so aptly named by CSUF students due to the barn-like exterior of the Sigma Alpha Omega house. The newspaper article covering Joey’s death had been miniscule and only elaborated on the cause being “a fatal combination of pain pills, alcohol overdose and traces of the ammonia found in most household cleaning products.” This last part apparently baffled investigators because no explanation followed. I then had to resort to reading the write-up in the campus Daily Triton to even get a press photo of Joey’s body. Since the cops had done such an effective job of thoroughly concealing all traces of the inconvenient death, most Fullerton citizens had been easily persuaded to move on. True to form, the ΣΑΩ brothers were throwing a massive bash in memory of their deceased member. Although it truly killed me a little to be attending this superficial celebration, I had decided that the best way to find out more about Joey’s death was to go to the source. Mel had helped me dress for the occasion-a makeover that she was positively giddy about performing. I had been adorned in a black halter top, featuring a thick band of shiny gold sequins that lined the plummeting V-neck. My jewelry and makeup all shimmered and coordinated with Mel’s inherent fashion sense. Why did girls go through all that planning everyday? I would much rather have been in my tattered jeans, flip flops and Budweiser t-shirt. The answer came to me in the form of a tall, tan and muscular frat brother whose name was of no importance in comparison to his body which was what I can only describe as one hundred percent of hot hot hunk. His image was implanted in the imagination of every girl spending that extra 45 minutes perfecting her glistening eyeliner. Unfortunately for Mr. Gorgeous, his opening line instantly confirmed my lingering suspicion that those were a hopelessly wasted 45 minutes.
“Hey there girl.” He said with a sly grin. “I’ve never seen you before. But I’d like to see you in my arms.”
He must have been joking. That wasn’t even a real line! There were hundreds of cheesy pickups to choose from and he delivered that disaster? I hoped this was not an indication of how my entire night would turn out. Nevertheless, I had to start somewhere, so I smiled with as much flirtatious enthusiasm as I could and began my investigation.
“Well, you just might get what you want. Only if you give me something first though.” God this was lame. This guy better at least get me some beer out of that keg I spotted in the corner.
“And what might that be?” Mr. Gorgeous was hoping for a kinky response but I was tired of this game.
“I want to know about Joey Dillow. I assume you know him?”
“Well I KNEW him,” he corrected me, “and he was the shit! Dildo was my brand brother, you know, so we were pretty tight.”
“What the hell is a brand brother?” I asked. This guy might be a good source of information after all.
Mr. Gorgeous looked at me like I was a crazy person for not knowing this apparently sacred term. “It’s the guy you get matched up with at Rush to get branded together. There’s that iron mill out behind the barn and you have to get the Sigma Alpha Omega letters branded on your thigh to show your, you know, allegiance.”
“Branded!? You’re shitting me right?” These frat guys were so much more fucked up than I had ever imagined. It was all so animalistic. The name Farm Frat suddenly had so much more meaning and seemed extremely appropriate. At least that explained where Joey’s gruesomely placed brand had come from.
“Shitting you? No way!” Mr. Gorgeous was offended at my judgmental naiveté. “You’ve got to prove you’re a Sigma brother for life!”
“Well, yeah, I guess I can understand that.” I lied to calm him down. I needed more information from him. “But doesn’t that hurt like hell?”
“Well we’ve perfected it so it’s not so bad. First you take some pain medication with a ton of booze so you’re basically numb. Then you apply massive amounts of ointments and make sure the brand is done in one quick jab.” He demonstrated the jab with a point of his finger. “It’s the cost of being in the tightest brotherhood ever!” Mr. Gorgeous said this last part loud enough to incite an approving wave of deep, rowdy barks from all the guys packed into the filthy living room. “The brands are actually even easier than getting a tattoo.” Mr. Gorgeous showed me the purple viper tattoo on his rippling bicep to prove that he had backup for his claim.
I also had a tattoo-a small “J” on my lower belly-that I had gotten as an act of youthful rebellion in high school. The blistering flesh surrounding Joey’s most recent branding looked much more painful than the experience I remembered. When I expressed this thought to my attractive informant, he said it was because whoever was branding him from the Pi Epsilon Lambda sorority probably didn’t apply enough ointment or had left the iron on his skin for too long.
“Wait, wait, wait. What does Pi Epsilon Lambda have to do with Joey? If the branding is a frat unity thing, why would a sorority girl be doing it?” I asked.
“Beats me. I just figured it was one of them since the brand was their Greek letters.” Handsome shrugged and I could tell he was tiring of this conversation since he kept glancing around the room for a new possible target of his hunt to score. I decided to let him loose and make my way toward the Lambda house. But first I made a beeline to that keg.

There was no way the Pi Epsilon Lambda sisters would have given me the time of day unless I offered them bribery or was somehow connected to their beloved sorority. Being low on cash as always, I lied and said I was a visiting Lambda from the UCSB campus and wanted to make acquaintance with some fellow sisters. They welcomed me with open arms and ushered me into the kitchen where they were having an intimate cocktail party. After gladly partaking in some classy cocktail party shots of tequila, I asked to see the rest of the house. When the tour reached the living room, I was glancing over the wall of photos displaying only partially clothed 18-20 year olds in various stages of drunkenness when one picture specifically caught my attention. Joey Dillow was smiling back at me, arms wrapped tightly around a slender blonde knockout who was staring at him with deep affection. My chatterbox tour guide informed me that the blonde babe was Jessica Conrad, current president of the sorority.
“Joey Dillow went to my high school!” I lied, trying to succeed in my role as a foreigner to Fullerton. “How does she know him?”
The tour guide suddenly looked overcome with grief. “Oh you must not have heard then. Joey died last week from some sort of poisoning. And he was Jessica’s boyfriend. She has been awfully depressed.”
Fortunately my complete shock came across as a reaction to the sad news of Joey’s death as opposed to the real reason being the fact that my tour guide thought Joey was dating her sorority leader. A few other sisters had accompanied us on our tour and now produced scrap books so that I could see for myself what a cute couple they had been. The photos all showed the same Joey Dillow that had claimed his affection for my roommate but was here displaying quit a bit of physical affection for a stranger named Jessica Conrad. That cheating son of a bitch! Thank God Mel hadn’t known he was seeing another girl behind her back. And a sorority girl too! It would have crushed her.

I wandered home feeling pissed partly about Joey’s infidelity but mostly because the shock had killed the great buzz Jose Cuervo had so generously given me. On my way I passed by a Starbucks full of chatty sophisticates satisfying their seventh caffeine fix of the day and almost failed to notice the familiar head of long, wavy blonde hair sitting at the corner table. Mel was cautiously sipping from a steaming Grande Styrofoam cup and was listening intently to another familiar blonde across the table. Her companion was none other than Jessica Conrad, the Lambda president whose existence I had just recently become aware of. Judging from her puffy eyes and trembling hands that she repeatedly pressed against her flushed cheeks, Jessica was quite upset. I, of course, was just plain confused. Mel couldn’t stand sorority chicks and here she was socializing with the leader of their pack? Could it really be only a coincidence that this particular sorority sister was the target of Joey’s disloyal affections? And even if this meeting was purely circumstantial, what could these two possibly have in common that would cause such an emotional conversation? I hurried home to wait for Mel, get some answers and blaze my puzzled thoughts away.
When Mel finally returned, I casually mentioned I had seen her in the coffee shop with someone I knew to be in a sorority and asked how they knew each other. Interestingly, Mel reacted with pleasant surprise at my discovery and even seemed to welcome my little interrogation. She informed me that Jessica volunteered in the same organization that Mel was a member of and they had to meet that night to discuss an upcoming event.
“She’s your typical sorority bimbo,” Mel said. “When we got paired together for this event she told me she knew Joey and she wanted to meet tonight to express her sympathy. She was so emotional, though. It almost seemed like she was over-compensating for something else. Or maybe she’s just a sensitive sorority suzie.”
Mel tried shrugging nonchalantly but I could tell the meeting had sparked some curiosity. What if Mel had been just the sort of threatening incentive Jessica needed to commit murder? I couldn’t voice my suspicion yet without telling Mel about Joey’s affair and I didn’t think she was ready for that kind of news. It was time I spoke with Jessica myself.
Lucky for me the first place I looked was the right one. Jessica was in the meeting room of Mel’s volunteer organization, looking over the plans for their event. I made my presence known by slamming the door closed and taking over the chair beside her.
“Jessica, my name is Jackie DeLyn and I think I know what the fuck you did to Joey Dillow.”
It was the easiest confession ever obtained from a suspect in the history of investigations. Jessica began to sob and did not seem to care that she had no idea who I was.
“I didn’t mean to kill him!” She exclaimed. “I was just going to brand his arm, just to teach him a lesson and get back at him for cheating on me. But I must have mixed up the bottles and put something besides pain pills in his beer. Before I knew it, he wasn’t breathing anymore. I freaked out and left him on the bed. I know I should have told somebody but I was really afraid! It was an accident, I swear!”
She seemed so genuinely distressed that I almost felt a little sorry for her. Almost. She had still killed Joey and not told anyone. Jessica was a murderer, a liar and a criminal and I was going to put her away. But suddenly a detail of her confession struck me as odd.
“Jessica, you said you freaked out and left him on the bed?” I asked. “Then how did Joey get the brand on his dick and who put him out on the balcony?” This just didn’t add up.
Jessica seemed baffled, as if she had never even considered this enigma. Dumb sorority girl. “I guess I just assumed his brothers did it as a prank. Didn’t they?”
Before I could respond to her almost comically ignorant question, a handful of cops came storming through the doorway, shouting that they had heard the confession and she was under arrest. How had they known to be here? I had not planned on such an instant confession and had therefore not alerted anyone of my actions. I asked the deputy but all he was willing to say as he dismissed me with a wave of his gun was that they had received an anonymous phone call. His refusal to unleash any pertinent information to a public individual did not surprise me. Before they could take Jessica away though, a thought occurred to me and I shouted one more question at her.
“Did you say Joey cheated on YOU?” I thought Jessica was the supposed
mistress.
“He was my boyfriend for three years!” She shouted back.
“How did you find out?” The cops were pushing her into the back seat of a patrol car so I could barely make out the response. In fact, I must have gotten it wrong. Did she just say “My friend Melanie”?
I decided to conceal this bit of information until I had talked with Mel. She owed me some rum in exchange for solving her mystery and I definitely wanted to cash in on that. I told her we should celebrate right away because a good solid night of endless alcoholic glory was just what we both needed. By the time 3 AM rolled around, we were both too hammered to even make it to our beds and decided to pass out in the living room. I had failed to remember what exactly I was supposed to be questioning Mel about but as we staggered to the couches Mel gave me a sloppy hug and made a slurred exclamation that became incredibly significant after my hangover had subsided the following morning.

The repeated ticks of the second hand in the living room clock were vibrating through my skull with deafening precision. I slowly shuffled to the kitchen for some orange juice and Advil and collapsed into a hard wooden chair. As I sipped on my dependable hangover remedy, I glanced through the pile of old papers strewn across the table. Amongst the grocery store coupons and credit card company pleas to register for yet another piece of valuable plastic lay the old Triton article describing Joey’s gruesome death. I re-read the report again and glanced at the grainy photo. There was something unfamiliar about those branded Greek letters. I had never looked closely, but had assumed the police report was correct in deciphering them. How could I have been so naïve? The letters were not ΠΕΛ, as I had originally presumed, but ΜΕΛ. Translation: MEL.
As soon as I was functional enough to brave the glare and noise of the outside world, I made my way back to the Pi Epsilon Lambda house.
“Hi again! You’re still in town! You should have stayed here at the house!” My bubbly tour guide greeted me at the door with far too many exclamation points punctuating her speech. My hangover had not fully subsided and her squeal made my head feel like the inside of the campus bell at every ten-minutes-to-the-hour warning.
“Yeah, hi there.” I tried, but just could not match her bouncy disposition. “I was actually wondering if I could talk to anyone from Jessica Conrad’s rushing class. You know, for moral support in this difficult time.”
“Oh, well that’s really sweet but Jess was actually the only sister to be pledged by the Lambdas at the time that she rushed.”
“Why is that? Don’t you usually pledge a group together?” I was sure this was a ridiculous question for a supposed sister to be asking.
“Well yes, as I’m sure you know,” my tour guide responded somewhat quizzically. “But during Jess’ freshman fall semester our house was having some financial trouble and could not afford all the events that go along with rushing. We decided to only pledge one girl and Jess just happened to be the one!”
The truth was slowly revealing itself but I wasn’t sure I really wanted to know it. My feet were apparently more determined to pursue my suspicions than my head, though, and they increased their pace toward home.

“They finally got what they deserved, those sorority phonies. I bet they’re sorry they chose Jessica now!”
I was too drunk the night before to pay Mel’s comment any notice, but as I hurried back to the apartment I realized she had mistakenly revealed everything to me in her drunken stupor. Lucky for me the newspaper photo had miraculously sparked the almost forgotten memory of her comment. My sorority tour guide’s description of Rush during Mel’s freshman year seemed to tie it all together, but I was still secretly hoping Mel would have a sensible explanation to ease my troubling feeling that she was much more involved than I had ever imagined.

Mel had already awakened, rid herself of a hangover and was busily Windexing the glass door of the oven when I returned. The accusatory look on my face immediately worried her.
“Where have you been JD? You okay?” She tried acting innocent but I could already tell that my verdict was right by the way she was obviously prepping for the defensive.
“I’ve actually made another breakthrough in Joey’s case.” I started.
“Oh really?” She asked. Her voice had become more high pitched with anxiety. “But the case has been solved. You found his murderer Ms. Detective!”
“Well it is true that Jessica administered the deadly poison but you can be damn sure there was another mastermind behind it all.” I said this in my calmest tone, as if I did not suspect her to be the mastermind at all. “Tell me, Mel, why exactly is it you hate sororities so much? I was always in agreement with you so I never asked, but come to think of it, you actually fit the sorority profile to a T. I’m sure if you had rushed you would have been pledged instantly!”
“Yeah if it wasn’t for the bribery of Jessica’s filthy rich family.” As soon as the words escaped her mouth, Mel dropped the Windex bottle and slapped both hands to her lips. She had so much repressed embitterment that she could not even hold back her vengeful feelings to protect her own lie. She had no choice but to own up.
“All right,” she said, lowering her hands and taking a deep breath. “My freshman year I did rush and was the first choice of the Pi Epsilon Lambda sisters. I rejected all other house offers because I was sure they were going to pledge me. But then Jessica Conrad’s parents come swooping in with their bundles of cash and a promise to fund the sorority on a yearly basis, thus ending the Lambda’s financial trouble for good. Of course they chose Jessica’s money over my qualifications, and I’ve hated the entire Greek system ever since.”
“So you flirted with Jessica’s boyfriend to get back at her for taking your place as a sister,” I said. “But I saw the way you talked about Joey. You were seriously into him. So when he wouldn’t give up his sorority girlfriend for you, I guess revenge on them both became necessary. I’m just not sure how you got Jessica to agree to your crazy scheme.”
Mel had turned somewhat ashen as she listened to my accurate theory, but she still nodded in confirmation and slowly clapped several times.
“Very good Jackie. Let me complete your little recap for you. All I had to do was tell Jessica her boyfriend was cheating on her with another girl and she quickly became convinced that payback was necessary. So I suggested a simple branding to prove he was hers. Joey had told me about the brothers’ pain pill and alcohol concoction so I supplied some meds to Jessica. Only I added my own personal touch of toxic kitchen cleaner beforehand.
“How very Martha Stewart of you,” I interjected sarcastically.
Mel smirked. “I knew Jessica wouldn’t finish when she realized she had killed him. That left the gratifying part to me. Joey had hurt my heart so I decided to hurt him where he was the most sensitive. Understand my placement of the brand now?” Mel seemed to be immensely satisfied with her symbolic act. “I even left my own name behind, but the letters are so similar to the Lambdas and the police were so eager to close the case that my little hint was completely overlooked. Displaying him on the balcony was only a last-minute stroke of genius so every stuck up Orange County citizen could see the consequences of their posh standards. Personally, I would have thought you’d be a bit more understanding Jackie. I mean, we both can’t stand all those Greek morons.”
“Understanding!?” I couldn’t believe how wrong I had been about Mel for the past three years. “You are fucking crazy. I might not approve of the Greek system, but none of them deserve what you have done.”
She just shrugged and picked up the Windex.
“You realize I’m going to the cops right?” I asked her.
“Go ahead. Jessica still thinks she was the one who made the fatal pill mistake and I was merely a caring friend who wanted her to know about Joey’s infidelity.” She said this with a pretend pout and batted her eyelashes as if she really was that sincere pal she had feigned to Jessica.
“Jessica won’t say a thing since she is so clueless and the cops certainly aren’t going to believe the accusation of a pothead dropout over a stellar student on her way to early graduation!” She had it all figured out didn’t she? She had even been able to convince me that Joey was her boyfriend and Jessica was the tramp because she knew I never socialized with those sorority girls and would never know the difference. How had I been so blind to her manipulation? At least I could be slightly satisfied in knowing how much she had underestimated me. By recruiting me to investigate Joey’s murder, she was able to frame Jessica and appear innocent and disconnected herself. Mel just never assumed I would solve the entire mystery.
“Fuck you Mel. I’m moving out tomorrow. If I can’t get justice by turning you in, then I’ll at least try to be content by pretending I never knew you.”
“Fine,” she said with indifference. “And don’t you fret, Jackie dear. Justice has indeed been served. Joey won’t break any more hearts, Jessica will have to survive in a prison cell not at all adorned with the expensive amenities she is accustomed to and my excellent reputation remains intact.”
It was just this type of “justice” that convinced me to stay out of school and leave Orange County’s legal system alone. No one could be saved from this Hell hole, especially when it appeared to the disillusioned masses as the glorious Garden of Eden.

This Year, Summer Ended in July.

note: in the hard copy, i included the lyrics to the song mentioned in the story. if you want to find the lyrics, just type "misery signals lyrics" in your browser bar. it should come up on darklyrics.com. this is the whole thing minus the smashing cover page. sorry about the formatting inconsistencies - i'm leaving it however it dragged into this box. heart you guys<3 class="MsoNormal"> This Year, Summer Ended in July. by lindsey thayer

I awoke to the sound of a soft metallic click. When I pried open my eyes the blurry numbers on Jordan’s digital clock read 5:39pm. I raised myself up off the couch and leaned on my elbows, slowly surveying the small room. Harvey was splayed over the la-z-boy. His shirt was off, crumpled on the floor, and his hair glistened in the dim light that crept out around the blinds over the eastern window. Must have been Jordan closing a door in the back room. Leave it to Jordan to wake me up in the early hours by taking a piss.

♪ ♫ ♪

“Live Free or Die,” read the license plate of the swerving chunk of fiberglass that nearly clipped my front bumper.

Screwing an impassioned slogan onto your glorified 100mph coffin doesn’t make you a free man. Fucking materialist. I hoped with every taut muscle in my upper body that the guy’s transmission would fall right out the bottom of his Corvette, and he would die in a blaze of Red Asphalt glory. I hate sports cars. I hate the smell and the flashy colors and the rubber they leave behind on the pavement in Edgerton. The world would be a better place if we didn’t leave the bored, incapable rich hoards to their own devices. Those same devices come back around and catch our asses in their eager gears.

“Friggin Corv–”

“Don’t get so fucking mad when you drive, Brett. It pisses me off.” Jordan grumbled behind his egg and cheese biscuit. His legs were so long that his knees were up against the dashboard. Even with the seat pushed all the way back, his 6’4 frame hunched and bent at odd angles in my mid-sized truck. He looked like a sea crab, all limbs, stuffed into a small pot, squirming around.

“Listening to your face in the morning pisses me off. Shut up and stop dropping crumbs on my front seat.” I shot a sidelong glare in his direction without taking my eyes off the road for more than a second. “You can’t drive any better, you pedestrian.”

“Fung meh,” he cussed around a mouthful of half-chewed breakfast.

“That’s right, fuck you.” I screwed up my face and poked at the eye-boogers accumulating in the corners of my eyes. They were black and ugly with the remnants of last night’s eyeliner. “I don’t know why the hell we decided to do this so early.” We had crashed just four hours ago at his place, and it was now 7:12am. There’s not much that irks me more than being interrupted from my drooling sleep by an idiotic plan. Except for ground up biscuit in my truck’s upholstery.

“Grrl, be migh. Oo nee uh bwe-er apipooh.” He wrinkled his forehead in irritation, and then looked down, brushing crumbs off the lapel of his thrift store suit jacket with his long artistic fingers.

I forced out a “huh,” shaking my head at how ridiculous he sounded. “I’m not nice in the morning. Deal with my attitude. I’m driving.” I’d been with the same band for a couple years now, and we all practically cohabited, sleeping around at each others’ apartments on couches and futons. I’d even been on the road with them, four huge guys and me, crammed into a van towing a trailer of our instruments and sound equipment. We’d spent so much time together that I could understand them even if they broke all their teeth and swallowed half their tongues. Sometimes I wish they would. I’m not a morning person.

Harvey let out a groan from the back seat. His head rolled back and forth in my rearview with the rhythm of the truck, and he smacked his mouth open and shut a few times. He was probably dreaming about Jordan’s breakfast in his shallow doze. Either that or his shaggy hair had poked him in the eye. When we woke him up in the morning he was still draped sideways over the arm of Jordon’s chair, his lithe drummer’s frame contorted awkwardly, and I didn’t blame him for being discontented by the early awakening. He looked dirty and pale, like he hadn’t slept at all. I bet we all looked like that. Band life doesn’t afford much beauty sleep.

I pulled through the gate at the back of the complex where we rented a sound-proofed garage for band practices, and hit the gutter at an odd angle, rocking my truck’s solid frame back and forth hard enough to click the rearview mirror’s dangling skull ornament against the windshield and crack Harvey’s ear into the window.

“Frigger!” Harvey shouted, and Jordan cackled, partially choking on his biscuit.

“Shut up, it’s too early to deal with your shit. Why did we decide to drive two blocks? We’re wasting gas.” I jammed my truck into park next to Shane’s truck. “Did Shane spend the night here? I thought he had plans with Angelica or something.”

“Still jealous?” Jordan thumped his chest and coughed. I bristled. “I know you know they broke up last June. I don’t think they’d be having ‘plans’,” Jordan rolled his eyes. Maybe I was still jealous. Five weeks ago, forehead knit into thick lines, sitting in the bed of my truck under the stars, Shane had explained that he was attracted to me but we couldn’t be together. He still had feelings for his ex. I stuffed my own feelings down. Screw attraction. There’s only room for complicated relationships and emotions as the creative fodder for pop-punk, and there were already way too many angst-filled adolescent bands here in Edgerton. Rich kids had nothing else to do when their parents were off driving their turbo caskets. Plus, you just don’t mess around with the band. That’s my rule. Sometimes it’s hard to keep things platonic, but survival is its own lover. Rock hard, or go home.

“He still loved her. The guy was completely whipped.” Harvey’s voice was gravelly and deep. In the rearview, he was rubbing his ear, one eye scrunched up, his nose wrinkled. He was one of the most attractive guys in the band, with a strong jaw and intense, light blue eyes – striking with his dark, tousled hair. Jordan sat up straight and licked his fingers and Harvey leaned forward between the two front seats. He tugged idly on a loose strand of my blonde hair. I swatted his hand away.

“Did it rain last night? Everything’s wet.” I pulled my keys out of the ignition and swung my left leg out onto the runner of the truck. I looked down at the wet pavement. Mud had been washed out of the new planters to the left of the parking lot. It squished up around my shoes when I stepped down, and I sighed, ticked off that we’d have to clean our shoes before getting back into the truck. While I have a love-hate relationship with California rain, I just hate the development that’s turning Edgerton into a housing tract and shopping center nightmare. Trying to trap the desert soil into little cement planters behind curbs really was an enterprise for idiots, like underwater basket weaving, or musical chairs-style high school dating escapades. It left everything messy. Including my shoes, damnit.

My pocket started vibrating as we walked the few steps to the garage door. I fumbled the flip top and pushed the green button.

“Brett? It’s Ethan.” Our other lead singer was on the other side of the country in New York City trying to negotiate a record deal with a pretty well known label. “I haven’t been able to get through to Shane. I was wondering if he was with you?” A strange apprehension crept from my toes up to my shoulders and formed a knot of tension. His voice sounded strained, but maybe it was just the bad quality of my thrashed phone.

“What? He always has his phone on. He’s in the garage, and I bet he’s just got the volume up so he can’t hear you. We’re here right now, gotta get in this last practice bef–”

“No, I’ve been calling him all morning since I got up. He left a message in my voicemail around 3am your time. It was short. He said he was about to meet up with Angelica, and I heard Misery Signals in on his stereo, so I was worried. It’s been a little over a year. You know how he gets.”

“Mmm.” I did know. And I still loved him. He was everything I wanted, everything I thought I needed, and now he was everything I despised about myself and the world, neatly packaged in a hot blonde surfer’s body. Shane and I had spent all that year together after his breakup, except that our relationship fell apart when he told me he still loved Angelica. He listened to the band Misery Signals a lot, the song “The Year Summer Ended in June” repeating in his CD player. I still had a bitter mix of feelings about the whole situation, but I did worry about Shane because he usually got pretty moody and depressed when he resorted to listening to Misery Signals. Anniversaries aren’t always cheerful. Sometimes they lead to alcoholic self-medication. “Ethan, I’ll let you know what happens. Lemme call you back, we’re going into the garage. TTYL sucka.”

“Later, babe.”

I slipped the phone into my pocket as Jordan pulled up the garage door. It slid up a couple feet, and then jammed.

“What the fuck, man. This door is so jacked.” Jordan cussed and rattled the door forcefully. He bent his knees and heaved, but the door didn’t move. “Something must be stuck in the track. Shane! You in there? Open the damn door!”

“Dude, I’ll just crawl under. Maybe he’s got the headphones on.” I crouched down awkwardly and tried to look under the door, but there was only darkness. My eyes just hadn’t adjusted yet; it was pretty bright outside. I shimmied under, trying to keep my knees out of the mud. My hands were a lost cause. It seemed like some of the mud had gotten under the door and into the garage. “Shane?” I blinked and rubbed my hands together, straightening up. “Shane,” I called louder, insistently. I hunched my shoulders, expecting him to jump out and yell something startling. I blinked a few more times, and my eyes dilated in the weak light. I took a step forward onto the carpet and bumped into something bulky.

Shane’s limp body hung from a thick strap that was stuck over the track of the garage door. His beautiful hazel eyes were bloodshot, open and staring, and his face was discolored even in the low lighting. His neck was purple and dark. The garage began to spin and I tripped backward over the edge of the carpet.

Suddenly Jordan was wrapping his arms around me, and the rushing noise in my head gave way to voice his yelling “Brett! Stop screaming! Brett!” Harvey shot in under the door and was trying to hold Shane up by the legs. “Harvey he’s dead, stop, leave him, we need to call the police, or an ambulance – oh god – don’t look at his face.” Jordan covered my eyes with his large hand. I heard Harvey punching the numbers out on his phone. My whole body felt cold. I gripped Jordan’s arms, slowly peeling them away from my body.

Harvey flicked on the lights, and in an instant, I was a stoic. My unrequited love, my beautiful blonde bassist, hung dead before me. I took in all the details of the scene. The garage looked all as it should be; nothing was out of place further into the room. The only thing different was Shane’s bass amp cab, which was overturned under his hanging feet. His neck was caught in the strap of the bass, which hung behind him. Nothing else looked like there had been a struggle. Shane, why would you do it? My chest was a black hole, straining against the gravity of loss and bafflement.

Harvey put the phone aside. “Fucking ironic. He strangled in his own strap.” He jammed his fists into the pockets of his jeans and leaned against the garage door. “They said to wait here, and not to move anything. Fucking loser, strangled in his own str–” his voice broke and he started crying, his body wracked with sobs. I slipped my arms around his waist and he clung to me, wetting my hair with tears. Jordan was in the corner still. He had his phone to his ear and was brokenly telling Ethan that Shane was dead.

♪ ♫ ♪

The police had come, escorting an ambulance into the parking lot of the garages. There was no one around on Friday morning. No one stood witness to the glory of gleaming chrome on the black and white cruisers, and no one appreciated the parade of lights flashing despite the sharp daytime glare of the sun. The three of us huddled together, chilled despite the increasing desert temperature, because Shane was dead. Harvey had his arms around me. I only let him because I figured it was more for his comfort than for mine. Jordan watched the proceedings like a hawk, alert, tense, every once in a while trembling in his jacket. I felt like I’d swallowed liquid lead, and it had hardened in my stomach and intestines. I stood like a statue. I stared at the garage. Then I opened and closed my clenched jaw a few times to prepare myself.

“It was murder.” It came out as a whisper, but solid, unhesitating, uncompromising. Harvey started and dropped his arms, and Jordan laughed bitterly. I crossed my arms against my chest and fixed my eyes on Jordan.

“He killed himself, Brett. Suicide. Being in love with him won’t bring him back.” He turned his head away. His suit jacket looked rumpled. He was a crumpled sheet of grey paper, disenchanted and defeated. “I’m sorry; I don’t know why I said that. I can’t believe he killed himself, but that’s what it looks like.” He kicked the mud and said somberly, “He should have talked to us.”

A short police officer approached us, interrupting, a pad and pen in his hands. “We didn’t find a suicide note, but there doesn’t seem to be any indication that there was any foul play. His parents have been contacted. Do you three have any information about his habits, or what might have driven him to suicide?” We three stared down at him. He was loud, offensive in the hush of the scene. I found myself balling my fists at his clipped, brusque manner of speaking. I wanted to sock him in the face. Harvey grabbed my hand. The gesture surprised me into silence.

Jordan answered, “He was a good guy. He was still dealing with his ex girlfriend. He really liked her, but they broke up about a year ago. She was kindof dating some other guys, and they might have met up last night. He gets upset about that.”

“Yeah, you should talk to Ethan about it. He’s the other singer in our band. They’re best friends, and Shane left a message with him or something, but he’s in New York until Wednesday.” Harvey’s lips were taught. I looked up at him. He’s pretty laid back, but underneath the calm exterior there was a seething, dark artistic personality. He was tormented. Passionate. Beautiful. But he needed a shave.

“Wrap it the fuck up. Everybody go home. It’s just another kid got sad about life an’ went nuts. We’re taking the body down. I want everyone off the scene in 15.” The police sergeant of Edgerton was a skinny prick in a suit. Of course the Edgerton police were excited about anything going on in town that wasn’t a traffic violation. Extensive building lured in big business, and then people from every other state started moving in to take advantage of suburbia. Then the rich people started showing up, violating traffic laws and paying off the CHP. Now that’s all the cops have to deal with on this side of town: red light runners, California rolling stops, speeding, expired registration. The occasional death of a 24 year old was big news in Edgerton. “We have all of your information. You kids can get out of here.” He waved his spindly arms in exaggerated shooing motions. He already had spreading pit stains, and I hated him.

“Will y–”

“We’ll call you if anything comes up. Coroner’s report, some shit. In the mean time don’t poke around your garage. We put up tape in case it gets more exciting than suicide. Fat chance.” He turned and started barking at the scurrying officers. We watched the scene slowly dissipate.

Jordan jerked a hand through his stylish long hair. He was always stylish, even when someone had died. “If you’re okay to drive, Brett, we could go back to my place, get some food and sleep, process this stuff...”

“Shit, Jordan, food?”

♪ ♫ ♪

Driving was a blur. The next few hours were like looking at a digital picture too closely: pixilated, warped, gives you a headache. The lucky ones have epileptic seizures and get to take a break from all of the stimulation. The rest of us drink something strong and pop some ibuprofen. It was a hollow ache that nothing touched. It was preserved on a pedestal in my chest cavity, enshrouded in my flesh, veiled, silent but painfully present. I had lost him. I couldn’t even hope that someday he’d figure out that he loved me. No, he was gone forever.

Great time to have an existential crisis, self, I told myself. I sat on the couch by Jordan’s la-z-boy and pushed some chunks of dirt around with my toe. I should spare myself the emotional backwash. Harvey sat down in the chair. He leaned over and held my hand.

“I’m okay.” I jerked my hand away and chewed on the cuticle of my pinky finger. “Do you think it was suicide?” I pushed the blonde out of my eyes and continued to gnaw.

Jordan’s voice floated out of the kitchen with the smell of hot coffee. “He hung himself, Brett. That’s suicide. I mean, he kicked over his amp and died. Joy Division’s singer did it. Crowded House’s drummer did it. Maybe he couldn’t handle the idea of another tour, or signing onto a label, or maybe Angelica didn’t want him back and he went mad. ‘Love will tear us apart,’ you know? Was he listening to Misery Signals again?”

“Yeah, that’s what Ethan said.” We were silent for a few moments. I leaned forward. “Do you think Angelica might have had something to do with it?”

“Brett, you can’t go around blaming everyone for his death, okay?” Jordan poked his head around the corner of the cabinets. “I know we haven’t had time to process this, but that’s not healthy. Here’s the coffee, Harv.” Harvey reached out and grabbed the mug. As he leaned over I looked down and noticed the mud on his shoes.

“I’ll be right back, I need to take a walk.” I stood up abruptly. Harvey started and spilled coffee on his lap.

“I’ll come with y–”

“I need to go alone. My phone is on.”

♪ ♫ ♪

I walked until I was out of sight of the apartment, and then jogged the two blocks to our garage. Something wasn’t right. I needed to look at the garage again. The police would just write this off as another tragic, emotional suicide, but even if it was, I had to satisfy my own unease.

The garage looked like a date rape victim. Police tape was everywhere, inside out, upside down, no rhyme or reason to its placement. I ducked under the garage door, which was still only open a few feet, and stood in the darkness as my eyes adjusted.

The bass cab was right where it had come to rest. How could he have kicked it over? It would have rolled unless the wheels were locked. Most of the big ones had locking wheels so that they wouldn’t roll around on stage. I bent down and looked, but the locks weren’t on. It should have rolled away, despite the carpet, which was cheap and thin anyway. Someone pushed it over. Maybe it was an accident, but if someone else was there they could have gotten Shane down before he suffocated.

Someone else was in the garage with him. Why did I know this? My eyes bored into the dim light. The garage was sound proof, so if there was an argument or a struggle no one outside would have heard anyway. Most likely there wouldn’t have been witnesses. This area was still developing, and there weren’t any apartments out here yet. With no shopping centers interrupting the swath of weedy field that stretched out to the hills no one had a reason to be out here in time to see suspicious activity. It would be dark at night. Darkness. Shane wouldn’t practice in the dark. He wouldn’t be able to see anything. The light was off when we got here, and it wasn’t on a timer, so someone had to have turned it off on the way out. “There had to be someone here.” My voice in the dim garage startled me.

When did he die? We left him around 3am to go crash at Jordan’s apartment. We found him at about 7:15am. That means that somewhere in that span of four hours he was here in this garage with his killer. Who would have done it? Why? I held my head and shut my eyes, trying to drive away the emotional fog that clouded my thoughts.

I looked down at the mud. If there was mud in the garage, the door had to be open when it was raining. That garage door was a tight fit to keep the sound from escaping. Rain, rain… rain and mud. Wet.

Something clicked in my head. I ducked out of the garage and started running toward the apartment. As I ran I pushed Jordan’s speed dial button on my phone.

♪ ♫ ♪

I burst into Jordan’s apartment out of breath from my sprint. “Jordan! Jord–”

“–an isn’t here right now. I have to talk to you.” Harvey stood up. He was a full six inches taller than me, which put him at 6’6. He looked huge. I felt small. “Brett,” he sighed, “I’m in love with you, and I have been since last year. Just listen!” I had opened my mouth, but I shut it, still breathing harder than usual, tipping my head sideways with a cocktail of confusion and frustration. He continued, “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew that you and Shane had something going on. I didn’t want it to get complicated, especially since we were on tour.”

I opened and shut my mouth a few times, and then shifted my weight back onto one leg and crossed my arms. “Just, what?” He gave a little half smile. I shook my head. “Harv, I just, I had no idea. But I can’t deal with this right now; I uh, I should find Jordan.”

“Brett, you’re so beautiful. I don’t know what I would do without you.” He stepped toward me. He looked so vulnerable. I’d never heard him this emotional before.

“Did you hear me? Let’s talk about this later, I ought to–”

“I want you to be mine forever.” His eyes got a strange gleam.

“–get back to get our gear and–”

“Now that Shane is gone, it’s just you and me.”

“–then grab… what?” I paused, and drew back from him.

“You and I can be together now that he’s gone. He won’t get in the way. I know he led you on, and Angelica was such a bitch to you, but you don’t have to worry anymore. I won’t do that to you. I have to have you, you don’t know how much I’ve been hurting for so long without you. I know that you love me.” His hand snapped up and closed around my wrist.

“Harvey. It was you, wasn’t it.” His face changed instantly. I had wounded him, but his hand tightened on my wrist. “This morning I woke up and looked around, and I thought it was Jordan. But it was you, wasn’t it?” The words poured out in a flood. I was a little unnerved by his grip and proximity. “It rained, and your hair was wet, and there was mud on the carpet. Were you there? Did you see him die?”

“What are you talking about, Brett? The police even said it was suicide. He was emotional.” He pulled me toward him.

“But the light was out, and you know how heavy the amp is, it couldn’t have tipped over like that – it would have rolled, and I mean someone would have had to have shut off the light because it was dark, and if someone else was there he wouldn’t have died.” I was getting nervous, but I had to reign in my fear and stay calm. I didn’t want him to think I was weak.

“It’s sad, but I’m here for you. He was trying out his moves, remember? Last night at the show he fumbled and couldn’t sling his bass around all the way. He probably just put the amp in the wrong place, went to jump off and toss it around, and got stuck. Does that make it better? That it was an accident?” He started to stroke my hair. Shane and Harvey must have used the same deodorant because they smelled a lot alike. On Shane the scent was comforting. Now on Harvey it turned my stomach.

“What do you mean it was an accident? You saw it?” I was trying to disentangle myself from his arms, but he was too strong. “Were you there?” I looked up, searching his eyes. They had the same glazed shining. “Let go of me,” I demanded, setting my jaw. His fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of my neck and pulled my head back. I felt exposed, trapped, defenseless.

“I was there. I left when you guys fell asleep.” He tightened his other arm around my back. “He was at the garage messing around with his stuff. I had to talk to him. I was pissed that he was taking you from me when he still liked Angelica. He didn’t love you like I love you.” Harvey sighed. “When he got stuck I rolled the amp out. I pushed it over to look like he did it on purpose. He looked so stupid, choking on his own strap. But the police will never know. I miss him, but it’s for the best.” He smiled down at me.

I let out a strange, animal-like wail. “You killed him, you killed him, you–”

“Shh,” He took his hand out of my hair and pressed it over my mouth, still gripping me tightly. “Jordan will be back soon. Do you want him to know about us?” I screamed into his hand. “I guess you’re right. He doesn’t like blondes anyway.” He reached over and locked Jordan’s front door.

I was alone with someone who had facilitated Shane’s murder, and now he wanted to keep me with him forever. While his hand was on the deadbolt I blurted out “Fuck you, you monster!” and struggled against him. He threw me onto the la-z-boy. My mind was racing. Where was Jordan? How had Harvey turned into someone I didn’t know in the space of a few days? How had I been oblivious to this the entire time? I struggled to pull the karabiner off of my belt loop. I had a small switchblade that I kept for adverse circumstances, like cutting string or packaging. I didn’t know how the hell I could use it to stop a 6’6 band mate, but it was all I had on me. This would get messy.

“Brett, you’re all I need. When I’m with you I don’t feel so alone. We’re meant to be together. You’re mad right now, but you’ll get over it. He didn’t love you. You’re part of me, and I love you so much I can’t stand the thought of you being with someone else. Tell me you love me.” Harvey moved like a cat and pinned me onto the chair. I was so close. I had the knife in my hand.

“I could never love you,” I spat, “you killer.” He had his knees on my thighs. I thought it might be funny if the chair broke under our weight.

His face hardened. With one smooth motion he grabbed my knife and stabbed it viciously into my side. Searing pain arced through my chest and exploded in my right lung. I’d never trust a left-handed percussionist again. I gasped and bent away from the pressure of his fist against my body. Out of the corner of my eye I saw blood begin to stain the plush chair.

Harvey made a choking, sobbing noise, and said, “If I can’t have you, no one will.” With a grimace he yanked the knife out, climbed backward off the chair and stood, hands held out in front of him, seemingly surprised at his actions. He exhaled and staggered back toward the hallway.

I touched my side in shock. I could die right here, knowing the truth about Shane’s death, and no one else would ever hear it. I blinked. My vision started to fade. Sounds meshed together into a roaring noise. My body felt lighter and lighter. He had stabbed me with my own knife, and with a choked, harsh cough of a laugh, I closed my eyes and lost consciousness.

♪ ♫ ♪

I awoke to the sound of a soft metallic click. And beeping. There was a beeping noise that jarred me into a shallow unconsciousness. I was peeved. I’m not a morning person. Whose idiotic idea was it to set the alarm to a beeping noise?

“Ungh.” I tried to cuss, but there was something down my throat, taped over my mouth. My eyes were heavy. I felt swollen all over and dense, and it was so bright.

“Brett, you’re alive. Well, shit, I mean you’re awake! It’s Sunday afternoon. I flew back from New York. You lost a lot of blood and Harv punctured your lung but Jordan got you in time.” Ethan’s haggard face appeared in the periphery of my blurred vision. He was holding my right hand. “He killed himself in Jordan’s bathroom. There was a note. He confessed to everything. We didn’t know he was on meds or anything. I’m sorry I didn’t know, or maybe this wouldn’t have happened.”

I shook my head. I felt so weak, and I was angry that they had a tube down my throat. I couldn’t even tell him how ironic it was that I had been stabbed with my own knife. I squeezed his hand. My chest ached, but not the kind of ache I associated with being stabbed. Shane was dead. The words repeated over and over again. A morbid image of his blonde hair spread across the white pillow in a casket floated across my vision. Must have been the morphine.

“Jordo,” Ethan shouted, sending a wave of shooting pain through my forehead, “She’s awake! Pee faster!”

Jordan burst out of the bathroom to the left of my hospital bed, belt unbuckled, hands still dripping from the faucet. He let out a whoop and snatched up my left hand. “You bled all over your truck, and I backed into a Corvette on the way out, but I got you here and you’re not dead!” He grinned from ear to ear, but even if my face wasn’t taped immobile I couldn’t will myself to smile. The sick weight of loss and mourning paralyzed my face.

Leave it to Jordan to wake me up by taking a piss. I turned my head to the side and closed my eyes, slipping back into blissful unconsciousness.

Final Story

Burden of Proof By Eric Anicich
"It's just not right. The boy needs to be studying," he grumbled in between the intermittent squashes of yesterday's deli sandwich. "I don't see what the big deal is. He's having fun you know," she responded over her shoulder while balancing a can of soup in one hand against a measuring cup in the other. A mother can never bring herself to condemn her own child's legitimate passion, regardless of the dismal moneymaking potential it offers. "How many of those damn archaeologists you think actually make a living for themselves?" he argued topping the sandwich off with the remaining four ounces of Milwaukee's Best sitting in front of him. "I don't know, but if our son wants to go digging around outside for who knows what, then just let him, ok?" This was nothing new. They had had this argument a number of times; the severity of which was determined by the quantity of beer consumed and the time of day; early evenings being the worst for his arthritis.
"Come quick! Come quick!" The dank evening shouted from the other side of the screen door. Soon a small figure could be seen following up the initial outburst with another enthusiastic appeal, "I found something. I'm not kidding. I think I got something out here." The tiny brown and white Jack Russell Terrier in toe energetically barked his approval as if to cast away any lingering skepticism the boy's parents may still have. "Alright alright. What is it this time?" his mother inquired. "Come, I'll show you." Quietly removing her apron and turning the stove down she followed her son as he ran ahead outside looking back to encourage his mother to move at a more youthful pace. He ran the remainder of the seventy-five yards before dropping to his knees and signaling at the ground to prove to his mother he wasn't lying. She was still about ten yards away when she noticed a mysterious gnarled heap partially excavated from the soft earth. She made up the rest of the distance almost immediately and before she could take in all of what she was seeing a sick reactionary noise bubbled up in the back of her throat and erupted out of her mouth. She too fell to her knees, but not in the way her son had done just moments before. She fell to her knees because, for the first time in her life, she saw a dead body.
By daybreak the quiet Orange County suburb of Fullerton was crawling with local police officers, investigators, and coroners. The area surrounding the body had been roped off as best it could with bright yellow caution tape secured around four nearby trees. It was a woman. That was the conclusion the arriving officers had come to. She was dressed in an expensive designer suit, partially torn and completely dirty. Her blonde hair was crusted over with dried blood from a gunshot wound she had sustained just above her right eye. She still had traces of mascara smeared across her cheekbones. A single gold loop hung from her left ear. Her right one was nowhere to be found. When detective Chuck Landry with the Fullerton PD arrived on the scene he knew right away this was going to be a tough case, one that needed to be solved right away if peace and order were ever going to be restored to the city.
One of the things Dennis Slade loved about his fiancé was that she was punctual by nature. Not the kind of promptness that relies on the weather forecast or the flow of the 405, but the kind of promptness that defies logic at times. Over the years Julie Bennet's friends became aware of this quality, often to their own startled amusement, having mistakenly planned dinner parties for seven thirty with hopes of having guests trickle in by eight. It was something she took pride in. Something, when asked about, she would laugh off and claim was no big deal. At this moment, however, it was the biggest deal in the world to her fiancé. She was three minutes late.
Dennis Slade sat nervously praying the twenty-dollar Timex strangling his wrist had recognized its own value and in an act of rebellion ceased to function properly. He kept running through the plans he had made with Julie in his head, visualizing every spoken word and relentlessly searching for something that would banish the thoughts that had begun to creep their way into his mind. He had intentionally made the plans simple and straightforward so as to not add any additional strain to Julie's already hectic life. They had agreed to meet at the Corner Café on Julie's lunch break, which she said would be twelve fifteen. That would give her more than enough time to make the four-story descent down the courthouse building and complete the three-minute walk across the street to the café by twelve thirty. What if she forgot where we were meeting? No no, couldn't be. The Corner Café was like a second office to Julie; a place where she sought refuge from the formalities of her profession often indulging in a cup of hot chocolate while mulling over minor details of upcoming cases. There would be no mistake over where to meet. He was sure of that. The suppressed fear boiled deep inside of him now, patiently waiting to rear its ugly head at the first glimpse of vulnerability. Stay calm. Stay calm. Plans change. Things come up unexpectedly. She'll be here. He waited ten more minutes before asking around her office if anyone had seen her. The last time anyone had seen her in the building was five o'clock the night before. By ten o'clock the following morning the bulletin was out. Julie Bennet was a missing person.
The couple's house was tucked away in a little community on the outskirts of Fullerton at 1426 Acacia Blvd. This time of year the trees surrounding the house were beautiful with autumn leaves a full eight inches in diameter. Shades of amber floated gently to the ground before the gusty Santa Ana winds denied them a safe landing. As he watched and waited he observed the leaves dancing around the base of the tree like young children around their mothers. Perhaps he would have enjoyed the scenery a little more under any other circumstances, but today his thoughts were consumed with his missing fiancé and the detective who should be arriving at his door any moment. The knock came about ten minutes later. Slade hurriedly made his way to the door and looked through the peephole out of habit before unlatching the lock. Even through the tiny hole Slade could tell this was one of the most imposing figures he had ever seen. As soon as the door was half way open the tall detective asked, "Are you Dennis Slade?" "Yes, yes I am." "Good, I'm detective Chuck Landry, Fullerton PD," a visible badge clinging to his shirt pocket. He removed a pair of aviator sunglasses to get a better look at Slade and tucked them just above the top button of his white dress shirt. Landry looked the part. He appeared to be in his mid-forties but his body apparently didn't get the memo. There was a controlled spring to his step complimented nicely by his solid, toned body. A depth of experience could be seen in his dark eyes not to be outdone by the distinguished hint of gray hair resting above. It was not the depth you see in a dying man's eyes, but the depth you see in someone at the pinnacle of their career.
Landry sensed all too well that Slade's missing fiancé was the woman he had seen just hours ago protruding from the ground with a bullet hole in her head. "Do you mind if I have a look around while you tell me a little more about your fiancé and when you last saw her?" He shuffled past Slade and paused in the entry hall observing a re-creation of the Birth of Venus hanging on the wall. "Sure, go ahead. I don't know what you're going to find though. I mean she was here yesterday morning before she left for work. Everything seemed normal until she didn't return home." Landry continued around the corner and into the family room. This was nothing like his own condo. The furniture was plush and light colored like everything else in the house. It didn't look like it had been used much, if at all. Sensing Landry's observation Slade commented, "Neither of us are really here much. I work at a big firm downtown and she is a lawyer. That's why I was so excited when we had agreed to meet for lunch." His eyes sunk at the realization that he may never see her again. "What kind of lawyer is she?" Landry asked, quickly changing the subject. "She's a prosecutor for the district. Deals mostly with high profile violent crimes." "Had she been busy with cases recently?" "Oh yeah, she is always busy. She liked it that way." Landry caught sight of a picture propped up on the mantle above the fireplace. This was the picture he was afraid he was going to find. It appeared to be a recent photo of the couple getting off a cruise ship. Julie's soft blonde hair was flowing to the tune of the sea breeze and exposing the most genuine of smiles. She looked to be about 5'7", slim, and naturally tanned. So this is what a living Julie Bennet looked like. Landry forced himself to look away, trying not to expose his secret prematurely. He continued on into the kitchen trying to pick out anything that looked to be out of place. The connecting door led into the living room. Against the back wall an oak cabinet sat holding a set of fine china next to an elegant dining table. On the other side of the room sat a stationary bicycle and an assortment of rubber-coated dumbbells that had begun to accumulate dust. "Did Julie exercise often?" Landry asked peering over his shoulder back at Slade. "Yeah, all the time. She used to do it here until we got a membership at the place down the street," he responded flashing Landry the little membership card hanging from his key chain. Slade began fumbling through his shirt pocket for a cigarette and motioned for Landry to follow him into the garage.
There was no point putting it off any longer Landry thought to himself. "Mr. Slade there is something you need to know." Their eyes met as Slade exhaled his first breath of nicotine. "Last night the department received a call about a body that was found about two and a half miles from here. I'm not saying there's a connection just yet, but would you be willing to at least look at a couple of the pictures from the crime scene so we can rule it out as being related to your case?" Landry felt like a coward for letting the pictures speak for themselves when he knew full well that the dead woman was this man's fiancé. The cigarette clenched between Slade's upper and lower lip mimicked the trembling of his mouth as he choked down the fear in the back of his throat. He couldn't speak. He only slightly nodded to let the detective know he could pull out the pictures he was referring to. Without breaking eye contact detective Landry removed a small manila envelope from inside his coat. He knew which picture was the clearest and went straight for it; pulling it out for himself to see first, and then turning it around and ruining Dennis Slade's life. He maintained a firm grip on the picture as he slowly rotated the image of Julie's lifeless body into Slade's view. Two things happened almost simultaneously. First, a moaning noise burst out of Slade's mouth as if he had been punched in the stomach by a heavyweight boxer. Then the cigarette fell from his lips extinguishing itself on the cold concrete floor. He stood there motionless for a few seconds before collapsing to the ground in a ball of tears. Landry had never been trained to handle situations like this. He usually wasn't the one to have to tell people their loved ones had just been murdered. The only thing to do now was to give Mr. Slade some time to recover before any further questioning. On the way back to his unmarked car Landry caught sight of the mailman who had just pulled up to Slade's mailbox. As he passed, the stout man inquired, "Is everything ok?" noticing the grown man in the fetal position silently shaking on the floor. "He'll be ok. He just got some bad news," Landry said looking the man in the face.
Landry phoned the station and told his superior of the situation. He suggested arrangements be made for Mr. Slade to come down to the medical examiner's office to confirm the identification of the body. He told him to give Slade a few hours to calm down before making the call. From the residence Landry went straight to the courthouse where Julie Bennet worked in downtown Fullerton. He had been to the courthouse many times in the past; sometimes testifying and sometimes watching fellow officers testify. Never had he gone there under these circumstances. After passing through the metal detectors he approached a reader board with the names and offices of different attorneys. He found Bennet, Fourth Floor, Room 3B. There was a bailiff waiting outside her door as he approached the office. The department must have called ahead and arranged for a security detail to prevent any unwanted visitors. After being let in Landry put on a pair of gloves so he would not disturb any existing fingerprints since he was the first one in the office since Julie's murder. There was a huge wooden bookshelf that wrapped around two sides of the wall in a U shape. On it were countless penal code volumes, case studies, and journals. Landry approached the end of one of the shelves and pulled out a book titled The History of American Jurisprudence. He flipped through the pages casually, briefly skimming over different precedents set in the early twentieth century. He returned the book back to its original position on the shelf and began searching for more relevant clues. On her desk sat piles of folders and papers. Despite the volume of information, everything appeared to be neatly arranged and labeled. Reading through the files Landry was able to distinguish between which cases were closed and which ones were still pending as well as which ones Julie had won and which ones Julie had lost. In a matter of minutes he had in front of him all of the cases that were closed and that she had won. He figured if someone was seeking retaliation they would not be dumb enough to do anything while the trial was still pending and they still had a chance to win. He also reasoned that nobody would bother Julie if they had won their case. That left him with six names over the past couple of months. Those convicted were in prison and therefore not capable of harming Julie. Their spouses, on the other hand, were still at large and may be harboring resentful feelings towards Julie. Landry had his work cut out for him and he knew it. He quickly scribbled the names of the spouses on a yellow legal pad at the edge of the desk, replaced all the files, and left the office.
One of Mozart's classical symphonies accompanied Landry on the way back to his one bedroom condominium in La Habra. He had heard on multiple occasions in the past that listening to classical music stimulates the mind and promotes intelligence. Landry knew this was wishful thinking on his part. At worst he would be accused of being an intellectual with a fine taste in music. He could live with that. Once inside his second-story condo he draped his coat over one of the high barstools in the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the refrigerator. He took the folded list of names out of his pants pocket and scanned them up and down waiting for something to jump out at him. After a brief minute or two he gave up for the night, dimmed the lights, and sprawled himself out on the dark leather sofa that he practically stole from an amateur seller on Ebay. Lying there under the cream colored ceiling Landry remembered a friend in LA that may be able to help. In the morning he would give him a call.
"Webb?" "Who is this?" "It's your old pal Chuck Landry" "Chuck! How the hell have you been?" "I've been good, but listen I need another favor from you. I have six names. This time I need current addresses, credit card information, and anything else you can dig up." There was a pause at the other end. "I'll make it worth your time," Landry interjected. "Alright, let me have the names and I'll give you a call in a couple hours." Landry ran through the names making sure his friend got the correct spelling. "Webb, this is why you're the best." They hung up. Webb was the go-between for Landry and some high level FBI agent who was always looking to make some extra money. Landry sat back down on the sofa and began going through Julies's files that were emailed to him from the district. All six of the people Julie put away were still in prison and would be for a long time. Four of the six that had lost their cases were men and two were women. The charges read: homicide, homicide, kidnap and homicide, homicide, double homicide, and homicide. Dennis Slade was right, Landry thought, when he said Julie dealt with violent crimes. Some of the details of the cases didn't seem to fit together beyond a reasonable doubt. Julie Bennet must have been one tough prosecutor to get some of these convictions. His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the vibrating dance his cell phone began to do on the glass surface of the table in front of him. "This is detective Landry." "Chuck, it's me, Webb." "Geeze, that was fast, buddy. Tell me you got something for me." Landry began furiously writing down all that Webb had dug up. When it was all said and done two of the six had credit card charges from out of state during the time of the murder, one had been arrested on drug charges and was serving time, and one had been killed in a car accident four weeks ago. The remaining two didn't have any alibis and were still considered suspects in Landry's opinion. He took down their addresses and license plate numbers and thanked Webb a final time.
The reports from the lab had come back on Julie Bennet's body and didn't reveal anything useful. No foreign hair or blood was found. No skin cells were found under her fingernails and no rare thread samples that would lead directly to the killer had turned up. The cause of death, as if it wasn't abundantly obvious from looking at the body, was a single gunshot wound to the head. The police didn't have much to go on at this point in the investigation. Landry knew that if his remaining two suspects didn't turn up anything the case might not ever be solved. The best thing to do, Landry thought, was to go down to the station and inform the rest of the department what he had found.
On his way downtown to the station Landry caught sight of the giant Meridian Sports Club sign and matched it with the small logo he remembered seeing on Dennis Slade's key chain. He decided to stop by and see if he could find out anything more about Julie from the employees at the front desk. He pulled into the secluded parking structure and found a spot about halfway down the second row. The customers streaming in and out of the automatic entrance doors seemed to be about twenty years older than the average clients at the local 24 Hour Fitness. Landry followed a man wearing high blue shorts and a tank top in through the doors. The man handed the employee at the front desk his key chain who swiped it across the infrared scanner in front of him. "Thank you Mr. Goldstein. Enjoy your workout," the employee said handing back the key chain. Landry froze in mid-stride and pulled out the yellow legal paper from his pocket. Below the four crossed out names remained Heather Donaldson and Leroy Goldstein. As Landry approached the desk Mr. Goldstein turned his head slightly as he made his way towards the men's locker room. It was just enough for Landry to catch a profile view of the man. Landry had seen this profile before. He had seen those tiny blue shorts before too. Landry now realized this was the mailman he had seen outside Dennis Slade's house.
Trying to act nonchalant, Landry waited for the man to disappear into the locker room before he flashed his badge to the employee and asked if he'd be willing to answer a couple of questions. The employee agreed. "I'm investigating a murder but other than that I can't tell you much about the case. I noticed the man who came in just before me was named Goldstein. Is that correct?" "Yes that's what the screen said," the employee responded a bit shaken up. "Well can you tell me what the screen says his first name is?" The employee prodded at the keyboard for a moment and then responded, "Leroy, his first name's Leroy." Landry tried not to show any reaction. "I see," he said. "And do you know if his wife has a membership with you as well?" "Umm, let's see here. It looks like she did until last month when her account was closed." Landry nodded his head in approval realizing that the account must have been closed after his wife had been sent to prison. "Did you know of a Julie Bennet that used to exercise here?" "Yeah sure, Ms. Bennet comes in here all the time. Everything's ok with Ms. Bennet right?" the employee asked worriedly. "Don't worry about it. Just do me a favor and don't mention you talked to me when Mr. Goldstein leaves, ok?" "Ok sir, don't worry about it. I won't say anything." Landry tucked the yellow paper back into his shirt pocket and went back to his car to wait for Goldstein. He knew what he was going to do in his head but he wasn't sure if it was going to work.
About an hour and fifteen minutes had passed when Landry noticed Mr. Goldstein appear from behind the sliding double doors. He hid in the shadows of the parking structure as Goldstein located his car. If there was any lingering doubt that this was the correct Leroy Goldstein it was quickly dashed away as he opened the door to a 2001 white Camry with license plate 3XCV194. This was the same license plate number and description given to him by Webb. Landry knew he needed to search this man's car but he didn't have a shot at a warrant with the little information he had. He needed another way. Landry followed Goldstein's car as he made his way out of the parking structure. He was familiar enough with the area to know that there was a series of three stop signs just ahead. This might be his only legitimate shot. As they approached the first stop sign Goldstein slowed and made a complete stop. At the second stop sign he did the same, this time waiting a couple of counts before accelerating again. The final stop sign was now in sight and Landry knew this was his last hope. Goldstein pressed the brakes but this time rolled through the sign at a low speed. This was all Landry needed. He hit the siren from inside his undercover car and motioned for Goldstein to pull over. Landry unhooked his badge from his belt and hung it from his shirt pocket in plain view for Goldstein to see. He put his sunglasses on hoping Goldstein would not recognize him from the previous day. When he approached the car he tried to sound as professional as he could even though he hadn't done a traffic stop in fifteen years. "License and registration please." That was good Landry thought to himself. After he received both from Goldstein he retreated to his car where he pretended to run it through the system. The funny thing was his unmarked car didn't have the in-dash computer system that normal squad cars have, but Goldstein would never notice. Sometimes Landry took pleasure in citizens' unquestioning adherence to the rule of law. He knew that regardless of what he told Goldstein he would never have enough probable cause to search his car on the spot. Landry's car, however, didn't have the standard dash mounted camera to record abusive police activity either. Nobody would ever know if Landry unjustifiably searched Goldstein's car. If it came down to it, it would be his word versus mine and I would win every time Landry thought. He marched back to Goldstein's car. "Sir I'm going to need you to step out of the vehicle for a moment and wait at the rear of the car." "What's wrong officer? What did I do?" Goldstein squirmed. "We just had a call come through about a car matching this description. I'll need to look inside." Landry lied. Goldstein nervously got out and watched from the trunk of the car. Landry began shuffling through the glove compartment and center console hoping to find anything related to Julie Bennet. He had just about exhausted all options inside the car when he caught something out of the corner of his eye, a small flash of metal wedged between the door jam and the side of the passenger seat. Upon closer inspection the golden luster of a small earring shone back at him. This is what he was looking for. Julie Bennet's dead body was missing an earring. Landry calmly placed the small earring into an evidence bag and continued searching the car. The car was littered with clothes, empty coffee cups, and letters. Landry dug through the storage area under the radio and grabbed a few scraps of paper. The first was a grocery list, the second had an unfamiliar name and phone number on it, and the third simply had the address 1426 Acacia Blvd. written on it. That was Julie Bennet's address. Landry placed the scrap of paper in another evidence bag and retreated from the car.
"Place your hands on the hood of the car Mr. Goldstein. You're under arrest for the murder of Julie Bennet." Landry had already removed his handcuffs and was resting his other hand on the butt of his standard issue Glock 22 at his side. "What are you talking about. I don't even know who Julie Bennet is. You're insane!" he exclaimed. Almost as soon as Goldstein finished speaking he lunged and Landry was prepared for it. As Goldstein made his move Landry slid his free hand away from the gun and towards his 21" collapsible baton hidden behind his dress coat. With the first swoop the stainless steel baton was fully opened and with the second swoop Goldstein's tibia was shattered. That was the first time Landry had used the baton out of necessity. The other three times he had used it were by preference. Soon after an ambulance and four squad cars were on the scene. After being taken to the hospital Goldstein was escorted to the police station for questioning.
Thorough interrogation revealed that Leroy Goldstein was disgruntled after his wife had been convicted of murder under dubious circumstances. Julie Bennet was the lead prosecutor in the case. There was a shadow of doubt surrounding his wife's guilt that the local newspapers touched on during the jury's weeklong deliberation. With any other lawyer representing the victim's family Goldstein's wife would have likely gotten off. This did not sit well with Leroy Goldstein. Just days after the verdict was read he had noticed Julie Bennet's address as one of the houses on his mail route. He had studied her movements for two weeks and knew of her membership at the gym as well as what time she normally arrived for a workout. His job lacked supervision and therefore allowed him to stray from his route and observe Julie for brief periods of time. On one of Goldstein's days off he staked out a spot next to Julie's car and waited for her to come out of the gym. As she approached, Goldstein attacked using a chloroform soaked towel to render Julie unconscious. He then tossed her into the passenger seat of his white Camry carelessly enough to loosen one of Julie's earrings. Goldstein took her to an open field where he shot her in the head before she regained consciousness. He tore her clothes slightly and messed up her hair hoping it would come off as a mugging. The premeditated and violent nature of Goldstein's crime landed him in prison for life. His leg never fully recovered and to this day he walks around with a slight limp as a constant reminder of his encounter with detective Landry.
Detective Landry personally delivered the news to Dennis Slade who took it all in without the slightest reaction. Despite the horrendous nature of the crime, Slade was glad justice had been done and that Goldstein was off the streets. He eventually sold their house in Fullerton and relocated to northern California where he attempted to date again. Detective Landry was ordered to take a month long paid leave from the force while details of the arrest and alteration were worked out. The department came to the conclusion that Landry had not done anything inappropriate and he was reinstated with full pay and benefits.