Shaunessy Goes West in Winter. by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

Chapter 11

Having fallen asleep early the previous night, Shaunessy got up at 5AM and made coffee as the Spanish channel blared at him in the otherwise dark stillness. Someone had a chance to win a trip to Florida and had trouble keeping her feet on the floor and her mouth from screaming. He turned off the sound and though he considered that an improvement, he felt antsy and alone in the quiet. He dressed, gulped down his hot brew and drove to the office. He got on the computer and perused the state missing persons reports again, finding an eerie sense of well-being in not having their troubles, or that of their relatives.

Uncharacteristically, today, Striker was a morning man, too and after having had an engaging prior evening with Carla, he drove back to her house for breakfast.

Continuing to be nervous about the situation, Carla didn’t sleep much all night. She didn’t have the strength or willpower to move from in front of a television set to an old movie channel. She really didn’t know what she was watching, her mind preoccupied with cops, sex and bodies. She experienced her

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first twinges of frivolity when she saw the degree of redundancy in the three fixations.

Startled fully awake, hearing a car on her dirt road in the pre-dawn morning, she went to the window and saw Striker alone in his police car. She made the quick observation that it wasn’t such a bad idea to be in with the cops or vice-versa.

She pulled her nightie off over her head and waited at the door as the sun began to make its presence known over the mountain.

Shaunessy was going through the New York missing persons files, somewhat a reminder of home, when he got a DNA match as the barely visible sun’s light came through the windows at 7AM.

The deceased was Sidney Feldon, a 42 year old plastic surgeon, at one time living on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, but reported missing by his wife three years ago. His 5’7”, 130

pound body had disappeared without a trace. His car had been found trashed in a much less than fashionable Manhattan neighborhood.

Shaunessy thought the fact that Feldon was a plastic surgeon from New York strongly suggested that he would not also be an illegal alien runner in New Mexico, unless he was also the victim of a severe form of personality disorder. Barring the discovery of evidence to the contrary, he temporarily dismissed Little Manny, “Kid,” and Joaquin from his primary list of

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suspects. Based on his visit to and the fact that Mark Gentile stood the most to lose from the body’s discovery he also, mentally, lowered him to the not likely list. That left duplicitous Collangelo, changeable Carla and nervous Jorge, none of whom have prior criminal records.

Shaunessy’s next thought was what the hell had Feldon been doing out here, after leaving his car in Manhattan and not telling anyone about his intended trip. Was he the victim of foul play in a bad New York neighborhood? But then why drag the body all the way to New Mexico for burial?

Did the establishing of his plastic surgery practice necessitate the borrowing of mob money that he couldn’t repay?

That was certainly a possibility and weakly points toward Collangelo and possibly Gentile. But, mob attorneys rarely participate in the messy parts of the operation. Instincts tell me it wasn’t Gentile. But, maybe it was. He’s been charged with prior felonies. Okay, Gentile is back on the list.

Had Feldon gotten kidnapped and his wife refused to ante up? Or, did she ante up and they killed him anyway? Possible.

Little Manny, “Kid,” and Joaquin get involved in many things. I don’t know what they are, but that brings them back in the picture, too.

If Carla is a transsexual then she has had plastic surgery, arrived here when the corpse probably did and was the only one

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to see trespassers on the property, a possible attempt at diversion. A possibility, but how many times has a person killed their doctor? It has probably happened, but after 30

years in my experience I never first hand heard of it. If she’s a transvestite she wouldn’t necessarily have had any surgery.

He mildly laughed when he thought that Striker might be able to testify to the correct classification by now.

Jorge is supposed to be mildly retarded and if so, I guess anything is possible. Maybe he is Carla’s lover and she’s covering for him. But, why was Feldon here unannounced? Did he come here looking for a new job as a surprise to his wife, happen to run into Jorge and get into some kind of altercation with him? Does Jorge get off on killing people? If so, there should be more buried bodies around here. Maybe there are.

The victim’s wife, always the first suspect, has to be added to the possibility list. Maybe she wanted him dead for any of a number of reasons, paid someone to do it and bring the body 2,000 miles away from her. Maybe Little Manny and entourage could be placed in New York three years ago. New York authorities should have covered her, but, at the very least, I’d like to know if Feldon’s life insurance was increased just prior to the “disappearance.”

This would be kind of strange, but maybe not so strange.

I’d like to know if any claims were paid under the doctor’s

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malpractice policy, say within a year of the disappearance.

Maybe he made a mess of somebody’s face and money was not adequate compensation for the patient.

Shaunessy was annoyed that his attempt to play Sherlock Holmes and solve the case by deduction wasn’t going anywhere.

He had discovered a significant new fact, the result of which was an inability to eliminate any of the old suspects, but add on new ones. More police work and evidence were in order and hopefully it won’t result in a telephone book of suspects.

Work, work, work, work, work. Headache inducing work. I came out here to give out traffic tickets. Shit!!! Double shit!!!!

What I have to do first is establish priorities as there are many possible directions to go. I’ll do the easiest stuff first; things I can check by computer or phone. By the time I’m done with that Chief Kerry or Striker might be here with other insights. Shaunessy picked up the phone. It was now after 9AM

in Manhattan, so he decided to make a call.

Jorge was again at the window when for the third time in a few days he saw a Vista de la Feria police car drive the dirt road to Carla’s house. His mind was clear enough, since their visit to his house, to know that trouble was in the cold winter air and the breeze was bringing more. He had moped around the house the entire day yesterday, trying to figure out what could

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come next and found himself merely confused and going in circles. In a moment of seeming clarity he decided that yesterday proved useless and today he would have to do something different.

He chugged the last half of his Pabst Blue Ribbon can to brace himself, put on his heavy green winter jacket and blue stocking hat and walked the road to Carla’s house. Rather than sit home and worry about what was going on, he would go out and find out.

In this case it proved not to be the brightest choice in the world, as his view through the window proved that ignorance was indeed bliss. Carla and Striker were standing in the center of the room and she displayed no materially-manufactured inhibitions and was using one hand to perform an operation requiring dexterity and manipulation on him, her other hand at his waist, as they sloppily kissed.

Jorge’s insufficient brain sent out electronic impulses felt only by him that went out in all directions, finding no place to settle. Not only was his girlfriend cheating on him, but she was doing it with a cop! Maybe, Carla’s plan was to be friendly enough, so that they would work out some way to pin the dead body on ...... him! Or, maybe Carla loved the cop, producing the same results. Jorge was oblivious to the fact

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that with either thought, this was the first time he had stopped completely trusting Carla.

Undetected by the lovers, Jorge quickly ran back home, sat at the kitchen table he had known for all of his forty-two years and nursed another can of Pabst.

It didn’t help. He had graduated from general malaise to specific problem and the possible directions that problem could take, which were varied, but no path he was capable of envisioning had a happy ending. He didn’t know that this was a certainty whenever the initial step onto any path is distrust.

The hurt of his girlfriend’s betrayal zigzagged with anger and fear in his troubled mind. He cried, asked God why and wished that his brain was competent enough to see something it had to be missing.

His father, Ishmael, heard the distress call, quickly tracked it down to the kitchen and curiously entered. When Jorge saw his father watching, he stifled the tears and staccatoed; “Dad, I’ve got a real problem.”

“That’s obvious. Want to tell me about it?”

Jorge hesitated, torn between wanting someone to commiserate with and keeping his secrets, but he thought he needed advice from someone more experienced and competent, not realizing that he, himself, did not have the ability to accurately evaluate competence.

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Ishmael took his own can of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the refrigerator and sat across the table from Jorge, saying; “It can’t be that bad.”

Jorge corrected him, saying; “Yes, it can,” and at that point he realized that he had committed to telling a whopper of a story. All for the best, he hoped. He told his father of that night, three years ago, when he met Carla and her trunk, clandestinely on the grounds of the abandoned casita. He had helped her bury the trunk and she had been his “girlfriend” ever since, which would only have been surprising in the detail he chose to omit. He ended his story with; “And now she doesn’t love me anymore. She loves Officer Striker.”

Ishmael said; “I was wrong. It can be that bad.”

“What can I do?”

His father calmly closed his eyes and pondered the situation. He thought; “Most murders eventually get closed or

“solved”, sometimes requiring the conviction of an innocent party.” He had read of three hundred some odd murder convictions being overturned this year alone because DNA testing had shown that someone else had committed the crime. Some of the innocent had been incarcerated for twenty or thirty years.

At this point the truth would be an admission of committing a lesser crime as Jorge did not know the bow’s contents. But he wondered how stiff a penalty exists for the possibility of

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“aiding after the fact,” since Jorge had now known the contents of it, since the box had been brought to the surface. He told Jorge; “We’re going to see Hector Ortega, right now.”

Jorge balked, his mind full of thoughts of undoubtedly losing the only girlfriend he had ever had, even though it looked like he already had lost her. Confusion overwhelmed. He said a simple firm “No,” and fixed his eyes on one of the horns of plenty mindlessly duplicated, seemingly to infinity, on the

“Pollyanna” table cloth.

Ishmael said; “That wasn’t a question. That was an order.”

Jorge clasped his hands tightly on the table, shook his head violently, adamantly raised his voice and said; “No,” his head still pointed in the table’s direction, rather than looking up into the face of his wrong, game ending father. Now he saw no plentiful horn. He saw red.

His father got up and said; “Fine. Then I’ll go tell Hector and the cops what you’ve told me.”

Jorge didn’t see any way out. With all that matters to him distilled into the simplest of terms, he experienced a moment of clarity and thought; “The best I can hope for is that the testimony of a deficient mind would prove faulty evidence in court, resulting in the clearing of Carla and that I’ll be off the hook by virtue of having “come clean,” and being viewed as a sympathetic simpleton. But that still doesn’t necessarily get

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Carla away from Striker. Even if she tired of Striker she would hate me for telling the story. Maybe he could tell Striker’s wife. Why not? Everyone else tells stories intended to further their own interests. That would be revenge against my nemesis,....... but still be of no help to me. Maybe, in the absence of Striker, Carla would turn back to me and I could explain what happened.”

Jorge attempted to stand up, but his right foot stepped on the family’s long owned, silvery, metallic, battery powered, can opener someone mistakenly dropped on the floor God knows when.

He stumbled, righted himself, angrily kicked away the time-proven, trustworthy kitchen aid and said; “Okay, let’s get it over with.”

The two changed into more formal clothing, got in the Chrysler and Ishmael drove to Ortega’s law office. Ishmael had sought the advice of Hector Ortega a few times in the past, regarding family business and was always pleased with his down to earth approach and seemingly good results. Ishmael originally went to Hector, because he knew of how effectively Hector had handled his brother Bobby’s claims to family money.

Bobby got none under the guise that he was incapable of handling it, originally a debatable point, now a self-fulfilled prophecy.

Ishmael refrained from moral judgments and attempted to only evaluate one’s desired results and the effectiveness of

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obtaining them; things that lent themselves to simple observation and numeric measurement.

After registering surprise at the events, Hector concurred fully with Ishmael’s idea of issuing a statement. He drew up the papers. Ishmael read them and Jorge, dutifully signed them, making no attempt to re-read the document. Hector said he would have the papers delivered to police headquarters as soon as possible.

Shaunessy was energetic. He called an old friend in New York, Jimmy Kennedy, who had worked vice over twenty years and might know something about missing persons. He got Kennedy on the phone.

Jimmy said; “Yeah.”

Shaunessy said; “Jimmy?”

More softly, Jimmy repeated; “Yeah.”

“It’s Shaunessy, dick-head. I haven’t talked to you for a while.”

“I heard you quit. Where the hell are ‘ya?”

“New Mexico.”

“You left the country?”

“No, idiot. Weren’t you present the day the third grade teacher taught the states?”

“I guess I wasn’t paying any attention to her on that one.”

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“I’ve always liked your instincts. Listen, I’m looking for a favor, some information.”

“I’ll try.”

“We’ve got a dead body out here, a plastic surgeon from New York, Sidney Feldon, put away three years ago. Happens that a transsexual or transvestite, also from New York, who the locals think is a woman, moved here from New York right then. Calls herself Carla Steeples.”

Jimmy hesitated thoughtfully and then said; “I don’t know the Steeples name, but I can tell you about the scam that’s been going on with Feldon and a few other plastic surgeons. They perform the expensive surgery and then get paid by referring the

“girls” to an escort service.”

Shaunessy laughed; “Do the johns there know they’re getting a guy?”

“Who the fuck knows? They’d no doubt say that they didn’t.”

“You can’t pin anything on them?”

“No. We got one of the ‘girls’ to talk and the D.A. says it’s not credible enough evidence to bring a case.”

Shaunessy was a bit flustered, but also felt pleasantly surprised to find out something so relevant and merely mumbled;

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

“Hey, is that all?” That was easy.”

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“That’s ’cause you’re a saint. Hey, let me give you my frontier phone number......”

Jimmy interrupted him, saying; “You know the game is rigged, right?”

“Yeah, after about two years on the force. You must think I’m stupid.”

“So, why do you keep playing?”

“It’s the only game in town.”

“Give me that number.”

A bit later that morning Chief Kerry came in carrying an envelope that had been delivered by courier. When he saw Shaunessy, he said; “I guess the postman didn’t ring at all.”

“He may have rung twice for all I know. I was on the phone and I’ve got something I want to run by you.”

He outlined what he knew and suspected about Feldon and Carla to his scrutinizing chief, replete with laser eyes and wrinkled brow.

The chief said; “I think you’ve got enough to bring her in for further questioning.” He paused and amended, “Or him. But I wish you also had something to tie her to that escort agency and the body.”

Shaunessy sheepishly replied; “She’s got proximity to the body.”

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“So do others. But like I said, it’s worth further questioning. Just wait for Striker and then you two go out and bring her in. I’d like to sit in on this one.”

Shaunessy said; “One thing, Chief. I think Striker and Carla are becoming more than friends and he doesn’t know that Carla is really Carl or something. It’s probably better that he doesn’t know and I hope he doesn’t find out when he becomes aware of the case details.”

Chief Kerry laughed almost uncontrollably and said; “Oh, shit, that’s perversely funny,” then he laughed again at his own unintended witticism. “I can keep a secret and besides, you’re not sure, are you?”

“No.”

The chief again resumed his jocularity and added; “I can picture Carla and him on one of those damn daytime talk shows and she has a secret to tell him. I wouldn’t be able to stop laughing.”

“I don’t think his wife would, either.”

Shaunessy remained at his desk while the amused chief shook his head and left. Kerry was pleased with the reported progress and felt safe in being jocular. When he got to his desk, the chief opened the envelope the courier had delivered. He read the contents of the document and excitedly called out;

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“Shaunessy, we’ve got her ...... or him ...... whatever. Come here and look at this!”

As Shaunessy read it, he wondered what had made Jorge Imparellez come forward now and why there was no mention of any transsexual surgery, but he didn’t have much time to think about it as Striker walked in.

Shaunessy excitedly called out; “Look what we’ve got.”

Striker quickly walked to the Chief’s desk and Shaunessy watched his partner’s face turn listless and stoic as he read the document.

Chief Kerry said; “Isn’t that great?”

Striker said a weak “Yeah,” caught himself and faked excitement, adding; “What a break. Fantastic. What are we waiting for? Let’s go get her.”

Chief Kerry looked at him with an expression that combined questioning and enthusiastic characteristics and said; “You do that.”

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