Drt (12 page)

I grabbed the box from the trucking company and turned it over on my bed. The contents spilled everywhere. There was the usual fare, empty cans of soda, notices from the boss, company newsletters stained with coffee, and wrappers. I grabbed those things and tossed them away.

There was a collection of pictures that I guessed had been taped to the inside of the locker. Many of them were pictures of the assembled family in various tourist traps around the country. There was the time that they all squeezed together in front of the Disney World castle thing. Then the time that they all squeezed together at some other amusement park. Then there was the time that they all squatted in New York next to that one giant orange and red box looking thing.
   

There were also sheets of paper that looked like printouts of a website. I set one of them in front of me and smoothed the edges of the page. It looked like a page from Craigslist. I read through the printed pages. They were the adult services section. Every entry was worded carefully. Craigslist shut down their section for advertising sex several years ago, after the rash of crimes by the “Craigslist killer.” It’s funny how that happens, as if shutting down one section of Craigslist would somehow also shut down prostitution or murder for that matter. Prostitutes have been around since the beginning of time, along with the tendency for crazy people to murder them. Prostitution and murder go together like cake and ice cream.

So this means the man formerly known as Jerry Morris was looking for prostitutes, I thought. Was Jerry keeping a secret from his family and co-workers? Of course he was…it’s not something you want your wife and kids to know about. I guess I could also assume that Jerry had used their services because there were pictures of the printed out pages that were taken at the crash scene.

I remembered what the woman at InTransition said about Leigh Ann’s problems. I wondered if maybe the wife knew about the prostitution habit. I wondered if maybe Jerry had covered this up to his co-workers by telling them that it was Leigh Ann that had the problem. I started to think that maybe the ghost wanted me to tell Leigh Ann that he was sorry.
 

I paused for a moment. I always liked the Hardy Boys when I was a kid and suddenly I felt like I was one of them. Maybe a long lost cousin to Frank and Joe. Of course, the entire time I looked over the spilled out contents of the box, I heard my mother’s voice. Every doubt in my ability came in that familiar voice. I pressed on. I went to all the trouble of gathering this evidence; I might as well try and put it together. Voice of doubt be damned.

So Jerry visited call girls. What should I do with that information? Should I go and talk to every individual person on that list? Should I try and focus on only the ones in the truck? I pulled the pictures toward me and squinted. I couldn’t make out the numbers on the pages; the person who took the picture apparently didn’t have my intentions in mind. I looked at the Craigslist printouts that were from the locker. I compared them. It was hard to tell, but I could make out some of the same words. Jerry had printed out several copies of the same listings. I took the page and tossed it aside. I sifted through the rest of the contents, waiting to find anything that would catch my eye.
 

What I really wondered was why the focus was on me. Why is it that the ghost could manifest itself to me and not to the person whom he really needed to talk to? Wouldn’t this have been a lot less time and trouble if the ghost could simply appear before whatever person needed to know whatever it was and tell them directly?
 

I dismissed these thoughts. I didn’t understand the rules of ghosts and there was no reason to peruse them any further. My priority was to finish plumbing the secrets of Jerry Morris’ life in order to save my own but not so fast that it might disqualify seeing Sylvia Barrio tomorrow.

Some of the pages were stuck together from coffee stains and food particles. They had a grimy feel to them and I felt like I needed to wash my hands when I finished. I started pulling the pages apart and looking at them. Aside from a few receipts and pay stubs there nothing of any real value, just like all the rest of this stuff.
 

At the bottom of the box, tucked under a flap of cardboard, I saw the Virginia State Police logo. I moved the rest of the paper aside and pulled it out. It was a police report. The paper was crisp and sharp at the edges. It looked and smelled like a fresh piece of paper, not at all like the weathered leaves that surrounded it. Not a drop of ink on it.

I realized what I had found, and its importance. Before Jerry’s death he had intended to fill out a police report. The only thing left was to find out what words would have been written down. Did this have something to do with the Craigslist print out?

I held the paper in my hands, pretty sure that this was the answer, or at least a path to the answer. I looked around the room.
 

“Is this it? Am I on the right track?”
 

“…”

“Can you give me a sign? Give me a sign if I am on the right track? Am I wrong?”

“…”

Jerry seemed to only want to communicate when he absolutely had to. I decided not to get discouraged with the silence. This was the best lead I had, best not to ignore it. I also tried to ignore that I was using a ghost as a dowsing rod, a violent ghost intent on killing me, no less. I found his silence on the matter annoying.
 

I laughed at myself. I sounded like a detective. I walked back to the box. I shuffled through the papers again, wondering if I missed anything in the dog-eared and decayed collection. A flash of primary colors caught my eye.

I leaned over, spreading the papers out more so I could see them all. I looked, hoping the colors would appear again. I found a crayon drawing. I pulled it out and stared at it, trying to discern what it meant. It had clearly been drawn by a child. The neat lines and precise penmanship led me to believe it had been drawn by his daughter. I don’t know why you can tell something was written by a girl, but you just can. The lined notebook paper was filled with crayon marks. In blue letters drawn large it said “To: DADDY”.

The paper was crumpled and gray. All over it, little dark dimes told the tale of the person who held the paper. The drawing was covered in tears.

16

I rode up the escalator at the U-Street metro station and felt the thick city air above me. The escalator pushed me into the humidity like a piece of food being dipped by a conveyor belt. I got to the top and looked around for Sylvia. She stood next to a Sun Trust ATM across the street from Ben’s Chili Bowl. She looked up from her phone, saw me, and waved.
 

“Greg!”

“Hey!” I walked over to where she was.
 

“Is there anywhere you want to go?” she asked.
 

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Do you feel like just taking a walk?”

“We can do that.”

So we started walking toward 13th Street NW. The streets were clogged with people politely strolling past the shops, restaurants, banks, offices, and colleges. The U-Street corridor in DC had at one time been the racial fault line of the city, the friction producing hard feelings and civil unrest. Since the installation of the Metro system, its streets were overrun by artists, young professionals and hipsters. We passed people with suits, guitars, beards and Birkenstocks.

Sylvia tucked her hair behind her ear. “So how’s the investigation going?”

“I made it through all of Jerry’s stuff I told you about.”

“What did you find?”

“Well, I found a police report that hadn’t been filled out and a page from Craigslist that was for prostitutes.”
 

“How do you know they were prostitutes?”

“Well, it talked about the payment being 200 roses, so I assumed. He was also looking at massage girls.”

“I see.”

“So that’s something, I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Was he married?”

“Yeah, they had a son and a daughter. I think that he was going to turn himself in.”

“Turn himself in for what?”

“Well, the police report…two and two together...” We walked past 14th Street.

“I am not sure he would do that. Why would you risk being taken away from your children if you don’t have to?”

“…I guess you’re right.”
 

“Don’t lose confidence in yourself so quickly, Greg. I don’t know for sure but you better be certain before you settle on that as your answer.”
 

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure. What did the family say?”

“I haven’t talked to them.”

“Why not?”

“I—it…it wasn’t the right…”

“Greg, are you nervous to talk to them?”

“…”

“It’s normal to feel that way, anyone would be., especially under these circumstances.”

“Because I am responsible for Jerry’s death.”

“Do you really believe that, Greg?”
 

“…”
 

“Because you aren’t, as much as you blame yourself you don’t have that much power. You are assigning yourself abilities that no one has, that no one should ever have.”
 

“…”

“Greg, how long have you felt this way?”

“Since it happened.”

“No, I mean…I mean this feeling of…fear. This anxiety.”

“…”

“That’s nothing to be ashamed about Greg, nothing at all.”

“…”

“What’s wrong?”

“You don’t believe me.”

“Of course I believe you!”

“About the ghost, you don’t believe I’m seeing a ghost.”

“…”

“I knew it.”
 

“It’s not that I don’t believe that you are seeing the ghost, Greg. I very much believe that you believe it.”

We walked past a Starbucks and into a neighborhood, toward 18th Street.
 

“Why did you tell me that you wanted me to do what the ghost was saying if you didn’t believe there was a ghost?”

She stopped walking and turned to me. “Because the act itself has meaning. Look Greg, your guilt that you feel about this man’s death is very real. I think you should continue to work through it.”

I looked at her lips. I thought about kissing her. I didn’t think she would stop me. I felt like I was getting a vibe. “Are you my therapist?”

“I’m not charging, if that’s your question, and I can be what you need me to be.”

I liked the way she answered that question. Her eyes had such warmth in them. I could see myself looking deeply into them as I leaned in to kiss those lips that spoke such kind words…but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I continued, “I’m not sure I like the fact that you think I’m crazy.”

“Did I say crazy? And you admit you have problems with anxiety.”

We started walking again. We turned right on 18th, toward Adams Morgan.
 

“Yes, I do, but there seems like there is something very specific about this. I never met this guy before, but yet his ghost looks just like the pictures that I see on TV and in the newspaper.”

“Well, is there a place where you could have seen him before? Is his appearance a repressed memory?”

“You might have a point.”

A large group of men and women wearing head to toe furry costumes walked south on 18th NW, clearly a group of protesters. DC is crawling with protesters from every part of the country. They have demonstrations with the best of intentions, but if you are a resident of the city, it can get annoying. Today’s biggest protest was the ‘Consider the River Otter’, a group of concerned Oregonians who wanted to bring attention to the plight of the many inconvenienced otters in these United States. At least they were committed, dressed in giant otter costumes, carrying professionally printed cardboard signs that said ‘OTTERS HAVE FEELINGS’ and ‘I SWIM ON MY BACK TO KEEP AN EYE ON CORPORATIONS’ and ‘LUKE, I AM YOUR OTTER’. We shouldered past the upright, mutant otters and continued on.

“Greg, I don’t want to have a point, I want you to feel better. I want you to work through these problems. I think if you do whatever the ghost says you should do, that will help you work through your feelings of guilt.”

We walked on the sidewalk into Adams Morgan. Ahead I saw a white sandwich board in front of a set of steps. It read ‘PSYCHIC READINGS’ in blue letters on either side of a painted eye.

“What if I went there?” I asked.

“Went where?”
 

“What if I talked to a psychic?”

“Those people are all scam artists. They are just guessing. I don’t want you to waste your money.”

“Maybe the psychic can tell me what the ghost wants me to do.”

“Okay, if you think that will help you, I’m not going to talk you out of it.”

“Thank you,” I said, and headed to the steps.

We walked through the door, swept away a curtain of beads, and found ourselves in a small room filled with the smell of incense. The walls were painted red and the ceiling blue. A smallish woman sat behind a glass counter, looking at a book.
 

“Can I help you?” she said, her voice sounded like it had been ravaged by cigarettes and whiskey for decades.

“Yeah, the sign outside said ‘Psychic Readings’?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Well, we need a reading.”

She hadn’t looked up from her book. “Both of ya?”

“No, just me.”

“That’ll be fifty.”

Sylvia rolled her eyes.

“Can I use my credit card?”

“Visa and Mastercard only please, the spirits aren’t a fan of American Express.”
 

“That’s fine.”
 

She put down her book and looked at us. She looked like a fortune teller. She had a scarf on her forehead, a lot of plastic looking jewelry and a mole on her cheek. “Okay, head over to that door,” she said, pointing behind us. “I will meet you in a couple minutes.”

As we walked toward the door, I turned around to ask her a question, but she was already gone.
 

“She disappeared!” I said.

Sylvia shook her head.