Joe Victim

Chapter Twenty-One

Raphael heads inside and Kent and Schroder stay in the doorway. They have to step aside twice as more people leave, an elderly man nodding and saying “Detectives” on the way out as a greeting. Schroder recognizes an elderly couple who look like they have aged twenty years since he came to see them five years ago with the news their son had been murdered for a pocketful of change and his sneakers. The guy who had done the murdering had spent the change on a hamburger and had made it about halfway through before he was put into cuffs.

“Maybe we should have mentioned Melissa,” Schroder says.

“We agreed not to for a reason,” Kent says. “I shouldn’t have to remind you we don’t know if she’s involved, and if we start mentioning her then we risk people looking for facts that aren’t there. We can’t mention things we don’t know. Next thing it’s in the news, and false information like that might upset her. It might prompt her to make an example out of somebody. And if it is her, then we can’t afford to give her a heads-up that we know it’s her.”

“I know,” Schroder says, tightening his jaw. “I used to do this for a living.”

She smiles and it breaks the tension. “I know. I’m sorry,” she says.

The conversation reminds him of the kind of talks he used to have with his partner, with Theodore Tate, after Tate stopped being his partner and became a private investigator after his daughter was killed. Four weeks ago Tate started the process of becoming a cop again. He’s still in that process-though it’s on hold as he fights for his life in a coma. It’s almost as if the two men have exchanged roles. Tate is becoming a cop, and Schroder is becoming whatever the hell it is that Tate was. Maybe even something worse. Tate and Tate’s wife have swapped roles too-the same accident that cost Tate his daughter also put his wife into a vegetative state-she came out of it the same day Tate went into his.

The same day Schroder killed that woman.

It’s a topsy-turvy world. Go figure.

“I’m still thinking it wouldn’t hurt,” he says. “We should tell him.”

“You heard him,” Kent says. “There were no women here acting suspiciously. And really, what reason would Melissa have for coming here? It was a good idea earlier,” she says, “and it still is. We’ll track down the list of names, and of course we’ll get the prosecution witness list and work with that.”

Only it won’t be we, it will be them. He’s not part of this. Now after a couple of years of dealing with Theodore Tate, he finally sees where Tate was coming from because he’s now going through the same damn thing. Some things are just impossible to let go.

“Maybe we should show him the photograph of Melissa anyway,” he says. “But not say it’s her.”

Kent sighs.

“We just say it’s a person of interest,” he adds.

“And maybe he’ll say he’s seen her in the news.”

“And maybe he’ll say he’s seen her around.”

She slowly nods. “Okay. You got one?”

He jogs back to the car, his footsteps splashing rain off the ground and soaking the bottom of his pants. He leans into the back of the car and opens the case file and the photograph of Melissa isn’t where it should be. He flicks through the rest of the contents, flicks through them again, then looks on the floor and around the rest of the backseat while the rain soaks into his legs and lower back. The photograph is of Melissa back when her name was Natalie Flowers, before she named herself after her dead sister and started killing people. He searches under the seats. It’s fallen out, but not in the car. Maybe it’s back at the house. Or in a gutter somewhere, soaking up water the same way he’s soaking it up.

He jogs back to Kent. “Can’t find it,” he says.

“I’m sure it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll show him one tomorrow.”

“Carl-”

“I know, I know, it’s not my case,” he says, holding up his hand. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” His cell phone starts ringing. He grabs it out of his pocket and checks the caller ID. It’s the TV studio. He should have been back on set by now. He puts it on mute and lets it go through to the answering service. Tomorrow The Cleaner is shooting a scene in the casino, where the main characters are cleaning up after a weekend of high-roller suicides.

“Well, while you were looking for the photograph,” Kent says, “I’ve been thinking. You heard what Raphael was saying about the protest? What if that’s what’s going on here? What if this has nothing to do with Melissa, but everything to do with the referendum? We were told in a briefing this morning that there could be as many as five thousand people showing up outside the courthouse against this damn thing, saying it sends the country back into the dark ages. And for all we know Raphael could end up with hundreds of people in support of the referendum, maybe more, all of them saying it’s the way of the future. That’s a lot of people all trying to be heard. That’s a ripe breeding ground for somebody with explosives to make a point.”

Schroder thinks about it. “You think Raphael knows something? You think the explosives are for somebody from his group?”

Kent shakes her head. “His group is antiviolence,” she says. “By the very nature of their group they don’t want people being hurt.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Schroder says, “but the opposite is true too. The very nature of the group means they’re pro-violence because they want revenge. People always think the ends justify the means.”

“Revenge, yes, but not against innocent people.”

Schroder nods. He’s feeling tired, and confused statements like his previous one prove it. When he’s done here he’ll head home, and maybe he can get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep before the baby wakes up. “You’re right,” he says, rubbing at his eyes.

“But people are all kinds of crazy,” she says. “Somebody in either camp may just think explosives will help make a point. Somebody might think hurting people will help the greater good.” She stares at him for a few seconds. “Are you okay, Carl?”

Before he can tell her that he’s fine, Raphael comes back to the doorway. He’s aged a bit since he saw him last year, but he’s still a good-looking guy, the kind of guy you’d see playing the prime minister on TV. If one of the shows Schroder is consulting on ends up tackling some political plot lines, he should offer Raphael the role.

Raphael hands them a list of names. “It’s all I could remember,” he says, and there has to be close to twenty names on it.

“Do the names Derek Rivers or Sam Winston mean anything to you?” Kent asks, revealing names that are going to be on the news soon anyway. By the end of the day the country will know somebody is out there shooting some of its citizens-albeit not very nice citizens.

Raphael scratches at the side of his head, his fingers disappearing into his hair. “No. Should they? Are they dead too?”

“And you’re sure nobody stood out?” Schroder asks.

He gives it a few more seconds of thought. Then nods. “Positive,” he says.

“Thanks for your time,” Kent says, and they all shake hands and then she and Schroder are dashing back across the parking lot and into the shelter of his car.