Birdsongs (18 page)

    “I really screwed up on that one didn’t I?” Benny said lightheartedly.

    “Hell, who would have thought that his daughter did it? How old was she anyway?”

    “Too young for me.”

    “You like them that way, don’t you?”

    “I do have a history.” Benny gazed out the window and turned back to Lola. “So you think you know a lot about me?”

    Lola reeled off a collection of information, imparting only a fraction of what she knew about him. Benny stopped her.

    “Whoa!” The flattery of a stranger knowing so much about him ignited a spark that flared his modesty. “You know enough to write a book about me,” Benny joked.

    “I am.”

    “Are you messing with me?” Benny asked, standing up.

    Lola continued reeling. Benny stopped her.

    Lola grinned confidently. "I wouldn't do that Benny."

    He noticed her informality.

    "Your story has just begun,” she said. “The other stuff that’s happened in your life is your preface. You're getting to the meat now."

    "The meat?" Benny was perplexed with Lola.

    "Yes, the meat—of you. Get this," she said, "man rises to hero, and hero falls from grace and rises again from the ashes, like a phoenix."

    Benny noted the bird reference and somehow cordially ended the interrogation telling her it was too cliché. He was not sure who interrogated whom. As he dazedly opened his car door, Carlton emerged from the office.

    "Did she tell you that she is writing a book about you?" he called.

    "Yeah," Benny said with disbelief. Yelling back across the parking lot he said, “Why didn't you tell me that?"

    "I figured that she would tell you. It was her news, not mine." Carlton walked back into the office.

Chapter 59

   R.C. stumbled through the door of his room at the Tuck ‘Em Inn and tossed his motorcycle helmet on the bed. Exhausted from the road, he fell next to the helmet and closed his eyes. Involuntarily, R.C. fell asleep. He dreamt of his bride to be who never was, Myra. After returning home from Vietnam, he chased a dream. He met Myra at a gas station in Alabama. As she checked her oil, R.C. offered his help. Offended by his assumption that a woman did not know how to put oil in a car, she coarsely told him thanks, but no thanks. R.C. for some reason liked women to scold him, as he did not have a mother to do that for him as a child. Myra liked to yell; they hit it off and made the perfect couple.

    R.C. and Myra lived together for three weeks when his acquaintance from Vietnam, Miles found him. Miles’s uncle was a palm-pushing lobbyist who knew important people and had a lot of money. It was easy springing Miles from the brig. R.C. told everybody he knew that once back in the United States of America, he would find work on a shrimp boat. Growing up in the Nevada desert made him curious as to what it would be like to live encompassed by water.

    Miles was a host of people. He was howl at the moon crazy, or calm to the point of anesthetized. Miles kept everybody guessing with his ability to play any role. With an Oscar worthy performance, he casually strolled onto R.C. and Myra’s porch one evening as they swung, enjoying their homemade happy hour. Miles did not mention the gun incident and neither did R.C. Having the gift of conversation and bullshit, he had an immediate in with Myra.

    “Hey soldier boy,” Miles said as he slunk up the three stairs on the porch.

    R.C. tried his best for cool saying, “Miles, oh my God. How are you? This is Myra, my girl.”

    Myra came to love her verbal battles with Miles; R.C. rarely talked back. Growing weary of R.C.’s emotional wall that only grew after Mile’s appearance, Myra’s heart wandered. She wanted to leave R.C. for Miles, but Miles convinced her to stay. Miles concocted stories that led Myra to believe he stole a previous girlfriend from R.C. and repeating the act might destroy him. Forty days after Miles arrived in town, Myra was murdered.

    R.C. came home one evening to find Miles sitting on his porch swing. R.C. thought something was awry as Miles had never, to his knowledge been to the house when he was not home to solely visit Myra. In his next thought, he wondered of her whereabouts. R.C. next noticed, by his appearance alone that Miles was a different person. His personalities had once again altered. On the porch, R.C. stood before him silently, waiting for the new character to emerge.

    “You ever heard a jail bird sing?” Miles asked.

    “No.”

    “You’re about to,” Miles chuckled.

    “What does that mean?”

    “You’re about to sing a birdsong,” he said rotating the toothpick in his mouth a hundred and eighty degrees.

    “I’m not following you.”

    “I’ve made it all possible.” Miles flipped the toothpick in his mouth again and rose from the swing. “Sing pretty birdsongs,” he said patting R.C. on the shoulder as he walked past him and off the porch.

    R.C. watched him walk down the road and out of sight. It was the last time he would see him for thirty years. R.C. replayed the conversation again in his mind.

    His first step in the house landed his boot on a bloodied dress. Looking up he saw “Birdsongs” written on the wall in blood. There was a crudely drawn bird and a musical note as well. R.C. ran to the bedroom to find nothing amiss or astray. The bathroom was the same. The kitchen was a den of havoc.

    In the midst of broken dishes, shards of glass, and the contents of emptied cabinets and drawers, Myra laid face up, dead, with a note stabbed into her heart. R.C. entered a frame of mind he later thought of as the twilight zone stage of shock. Shaking uncontrollably, he held both hands to his head to steady it in order to read the note. Written and signed by Miles, it read:

    
Myra,

    
I got your note. I’m sorry he found out about us. Please don’t be scared of him. I don’t think he would do anything crazy. Make it one more day and I will be back in town tomorrow with money and we can leave this town forever. Think of the bird that comes to my window and sings when we are in bed. Remember the birdsong.

    
I love you,

  
Miles

   R.C. opened his eyes and noticed that light no longer peeked around the drapery. He wondered what time it was and how long he slept. His eyes, contaminated with the goop of sleep and the dust and dirt from the road needed cleansing. He took two steps toward the sink and noticed it immediately. On the bathroom counter laid a single bird feather.

    Miles knew that R.C. was in town. Little did R.C. know, Miles basically knew when he crossed into the city limits. Miles had planned this for years. Game on.

Chapter 60

   It was Benny’s habit to attend the funerals of the victims in his cases. The obituary Ms. Hill prepared was printed in the
Tilley Bee
the preceding morning complete with prose expressing love, farewell, and the underlying message of, until we meet again. The obituary also stated the funeral arrangements. Benny placed a call to Ms. Hill inquiring if she had a family member who would be able to accompany her during the proceedings. She said she did not. Benny offered his hand and shoulder and Ms. Hill accepted.

    Wearing his only black suit bought for these exact occasions, Benny picked her up an hour and a half before the funeral began. He suggested they get coffee and chat before the observance. Benny found it helped grieving parties ease their emotions if they were allowed the chance to reminisce and talk without interruption to a willful and interested ear before the ceremony. Over cups of black coffee, Ms. Hill created for Benny vivid pictures of Danny’s childhood. Some of her tales were funny while others were somber stories revealing the shy boy whose spirit fermented and settled into reclusiveness.

    Before leaving, Ms. Hill warned Benny they would probably be the only people in attendance because of the fact that Danny didn’t have any friends. She relayed to Benny she was prepared for this and it would not offend or further sadden her. She also warned him that it was not going to be an ordinary funeral.

    “Danny and I were sitting at the kitchen table one night after his father’s death,” Ms. Hill said as she paused to think of the timetable involved. “I think it was about two weeks after my husband’s funeral on a night in which neither of us could sleep. We were both coming around mentally and we got to talking and laughing—however strange that sounds, about how the service was so stuffy and quite honestly dreadful. We both decided that neither of us wanted that kind of funeral for ourselves or for those who might attend. Maybe it was too late that night and we were punch-drunk from our weariness but we made a pact that whoever survived the other would carry out the desired memorial services of the other party. We spelled out our wishes to each other. Does this sound pretty weird to you Benny?”

    “Not at all. I think it actually sounds like a great idea – so what were Danny’s wishes?”

    “Well,” she began with a smile. “I am going to tell his favorite childhood story – one I haven’t told you yet. I’ve been saving it. Next, I am going to read the lyrics from a song he wrote, and finally I will play the song
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
over the church’s sound system. It’s seventeen minutes long. When the song is over, I am supposed to walk out of the room, without speaking, waving my hand as I exit signaling all others to follow. Danny said he wanted me to get in my car, drive home, and get on with my life. I am sure when he was saying all this he never imagined he would actually die before me though.”

    “I hope you will follow through with all of his wishes,” Benny stated looking directly into her eyes.

    “I will.”

    “Did Danny tell you the story behind the song he chose?”

    “
In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida
?”

    “Yeah.”

    “No he did not,” Ms. Hill said interested.

    “There are a couple versions of this story, none of which anybody seems to know if they are true or not. One version, and my favorite spins the yarn that the lead singer of the band was so drunk that he slurred the original title,
In the Garden of Eden
into this new concoction of sounds.”

    “Wow! I can’t believe he never told me that—well, yes I can. He was such a cryptic boy. Thank you Benny. That made my day. We better get over to the church and hear that song.”

    “Did you find a recording of it in Danny’s room?” Benny asked, the detective in him emerging.

    “He didn’t have it,” Ms. Hill answered. “I bought it yesterday from some guy named Larry at that tiny music store in town.”

Chapter 61

   Miles knew he was a target. He liked it. Miles decided to let R.C. be the hunter and he would play the role of the hunted. Eyes to the back peeked constantly over his shoulder with a prepared counter-attack.

    During R.C.’s incarceration, Miles was a student of parole board policy and procedure. He compiled a portfolio of R.C.’s state data, complete with anything he could get his hands on. Miles made fake phone calls, composed phony letters, and posed as a host of personalities. Miles surmised he probably knew before R.C. the exact date of his release.

    Miles lived in Tilley for nearly eight years before R.C. rolled into town. He was an insider. Miles knew the ebb and flow of the town. When the tide pulled R.C. onto its shores, he knew. The problem was, it also pulled in a kid named Red. Red was the monkey wrench in his thirty year plan. The kid, Miles thought, was such an enigma of seeming retardation, he would surely slant suspicions in his direction.

    Miles made his first kill during each of their first days in town. The plans were already in the works and Miles resisted hitting the panic button and canceling the operation. One of Mile’s personalities seduced Ryan Mableton. He was easy – such a horny little bugger. With a search engine and knowledge of a few sites males on the prowl frequented, he digitally baited the field and waited. Miles used the screen name Little Red Hen to add yet another feather to the pile he hoped would eventually break the camel’s back. Taking the bait, sinker and all, Ryan frothed at the mouth, and elsewhere.

    Luckily, Ryan was an incredibly trusting soul; penises will do that to a man. Miles arrived at the house on Little Pond Road first. He parked his car out front where it would not be missed. He rolled the windows down and intentionally left the interior lights on so Ryan could view the contents of the car. Miles sprayed 12 shots of perfume through the opened windows praying the smell would linger long enough to further entice Ryan. He put a purse on the front seat with lipstick, mascara, and packs of breath freshening gum encircled the still life. On the front door he left a note written in a well-practiced girly cursive, the lower case i’s were dotted with hearts.

    Following the written instructions, Ryan entered the house, disrobed, and lay down, eyes covered on the mattress surrounded by blue candles. Miles pushed play on his boom box and sounds of the 70’s filled the air. Taken slightly aback by the musical selection, Ryan soon forgot his concerns as blood rushed away from his brain to other areas of his body. Miles used a piece of wire to conduct an invisible orchestra of sounds before wrapping it around Ryan’s neck. Ryan flopped like a fish out of water. Miles pranced with the music as he tied Ryan’s lifeless body to a pre-constructed cross. He didn’t have the stomach at this point of the game for nails. From his bag of tricks, Miles retrieved and added a half-crown of thorns. He felt Ryan’s blood that was still warm as it trickled down Ryan’s forehead and dripped onto his own forehead. With the music narrating Mile’s actions in seemingly perfect synchronization, Miles wound odd morsels of differing materials around Ryan’s right arm. He carefully placed rings on his four fingers and thumb. Miles viewed his art pondering its last piece.

    From his bag, he produced a dead bird. Miles smiled as he cupped the limp creature. Miles continued smiling as he sat the lifeless bird under Ryan’s right foot. The bird’s head fell to one side and Miles straightened it, pushing it down into the bird’s torso; the bird’s neck snapped and stood still in a way that pleased Miles.