Scents and Sensibility (18 page)

We went inside—me, Bernie, Trish, Stackhouse. I'd been in weight rooms before, especially around the time of the Roidman Rafferty case. Roidman! He'd flipped the Porsche—this was several Porsches ago, all newer and less dinged than the one we had now—right over with his bare hands! But he ended up getting grabbed by the pant leg in the usual way. Back to the weight room here at the farm, which was on the small side, with a few benches, bars and plates, rigs and racks, plus a heavy scent of human male sweat on everything, some of it fairly fresh, some going way back. Everything was tidy except for one little area against the far wall, where a bench lay on its side, the front part resting on a barbell with big plates on both ends. The two stands for racking the bar also lay on the floor in a scattered kind of way. We stood around the messy area. Stackhouse pointed to the barbell.

“Benching two fifty,” he said. “Someone reported hearing noise. A CO looked in and found him lying on his back with the bar across his throat. He freed him up and started CPR, but it was too late. Sorry to say, ma'am. Death by asphyxiation. It's a risk that comes with the bench-press exercise, which is why we encourage the use of spotters.”

Trish covered her mouth with both hands, but still a high little cry escaped. Her eyes filled with tears, although they didn't flow, sort of like she'd bottled them up, too.

“He was alone?” Bernie was saying.

Stackhouse nodded. At the same time, he touched Trish's shoulder in a comforting way. She didn't exactly shrug him off; more like she just drifted back a step or two and leaned against the wall.

“What time was this?” Bernie said.

“CO made it zero six forty-five,” said Stackhouse.

“So less than two hours before his release from a fifteen-year stretch he was in here pumping iron?” Bernie said.

“You know gym rats,” Stackhouse said.

This conversation was hard to follow. For one thing, there were no rats anywhere nearby. For another, Bernie knew no rats of any kind. I began to suspect that Stackhouse might not be on top of things.

“The inmates are locked up at night?” Bernie said.

“Yup,” said Stackhouse. “Cell doors open at zero five thirty, breakfast at six. After that, there's some free time till work assignments. This is minimum security, Bernie, pretty much everyone here for less than six months. Even the morons don't screw up.”

Bernie went over to the fallen bar, half-squatted, picked it up, hefted it, seemed to feel the weight. “Two fifty his normal load?”

Stackhouse shrugged. “A decent amount, but nothing special, right?”

“No, nothing special,” Bernie said, gently lowering the bar to the floor.

Trish turned toward us. “Travis was captain of the freshman football team in high school,” she said with an edge to her voice, like they'd offended her.

“That's, uh, a nice accomplishment,” Stackhouse said.

Meanwhile, Bernie was looking around the room. “Had time to check the video?” he said.

Stackhouse rubbed his chin, a human thing—mostly male—that means some problem is on the way. Stackhouse not on top of things? For sure! Had I nailed it or what? And so early in the game! Chet the Jet, ahead of the curve—which had actually happened once in the Porsche when we went into a sudden spin, but no time for that now. “We're in a transitional phase when it comes to video,” Stackhouse said.

“You're telling me this is a prison with no video surveillance?” Bernie said.

Trish frowned, the lines in her face, already deepish, deepening more. Stackhouse glanced at her, then took Bernie by the elbow and led him aside, which only works if Bernie wants to be led aside. He lowered his voice and said, “We've got video, but no longer comprehensive.”

“Huh?”

“You must have read about the budget cuts, Bernie. I had to prioritize the video coverage.”

Bernie took a deep breath, let it out slow. Trish moved toward them. “What are you two whispering about?”

“Nothing,” said Stackhouse.

She didn't seem to hear. “What are you hiding from me?”

“Not a thing, ma'am.” He gestured toward the tipped-over bench. “I'm sorry.”

Trish shook her head. “Don't want to hear it,” she said. “Don't want to hear anything.” She strode across the weight room and out the door. We followed. Trish was moving fast, already rounding a corner, so we moved fast, too. But then for no reason I knew, I stopped and looked back, down the hall the other way. And there, leaning on a mop, was the long-armed dude with the cell phone down his pants, watching us. I like most of the humans I've met, but I did not like the long-armed dude. Was there any reason not to let him know? None occurred to me, at least not right away, and right away is my comfort zone when it comes to time.

Bernie spun around. “Chet! What are you barking at?”

The long-armed dude, of course. And now he had a little grin on his face that made me bark all the more.

“Chet! Cool it!”

Certainly, but not now. Cooling it later? No objection to that, at least none I could think of at the—

“CHET!”

I cooled it. Bernie took one quick glance at the long-armed dude, now busy with his mop, head down, and then we turned and followed Stackhouse and Trish out of the building.

•  •  •

Trish's van was parked next to the Porsche. Bernie and I trailed after her across the lot. She paid no attention to us, but you can always tell if someone knows you're behind them and she knew. We stopped beside the Porsche.

“Uh, Trish?” Bernie said.

Trish opened the passenger door of the van. On the seat lay a paper bag with burgers and fries inside and a six-pack of beer, which was more than two. Trish grabbed the fast-food bag and the six-pack and turned to Bernie.

“Here,” she said.

“I don't want that,” Bernie said. “It's yours.”

“No,” Trish said. “It's for Travis. Burgers and beer. He couldn't wait.” She held out the bag and the six-pack.

Bernie shook his head. “I can understand why you maybe wouldn't want to consume—” He cut himself off, but maybe too late. Trish let go of the bag and the six-pack, which fell on the pavement, glass shattering. Then, her hands just dangling empty in the air, she started to wail, a piercing high-pitched wail that went on and on. I crouched down, as though a storm had sprung up, had no idea what to do. That was when Bernie stepped forward, sort of hugged Trish without getting too close, and patted her back. She sobbed on his shoulder, gradually went still.

“The world's a goddamn filthy mess,” she said.

“Let's try to clean up one little corner,” said Bernie.

That brightened things up, at least for me. I began to take an interest in my surroundings, and what do you know? The bag of burgers had split open in a convenient way and lay practically at my feet.

•  •  •

We took Trish out for coffee at a little roadside place on the way to town. It had a patio out back overlooking an empty swimming pool and a trailer park. There's all kinds of beauty in life. Bernie had coffee black, Trish had hers with cream and sugar, and I had water. You can't beat water, in my opinion. Don't know about your insides, but mine are like a well. Wells need water.

Trish held her cup in both hands—as women sometimes do, but men hardly ever—and took a sip. The sun shone on her face, so rough from too much sun already. “You're a detective?” she said.

“Private,” Bernie said. “Right now we're working for the parents of Billy Parsons.”

Trish put down her cup. “Weak men are the ones who screw you up.”

“How so?” Bernie said.

“In my life, anyhow. The strong ones just screw you, period.”

“And Billy's a weak one?”

“I don't know about now,” she said. “I haven't seen him in a long time.”

“Fifteen years?” Bernie said.

“Longer than that,” said Trish.

“He got out a few weeks ago,” Bernie said.

“Figures,” said Trish.

“What do you mean?”

Trish didn't answer. She tore open another sugar packet, emptied it into her cup, stirred with her finger. What a nice sight that was! Also the smell of sugar is very pleasant, and licking sugar bowls—the chance coming along all too rarely, in my experience—is a fun activity. I decided this interview was going well. Trish took another sip. Bernie waited, in this very still way he has, like we had forever. It's one of his best techniques.

“Do you know how Travis and Billy met?” Trish said at last. “In high school detention—this was at Mesa City High, their junior year. They walked out of detention together and never went back.” Trish did one of those little nose laughs, a kind of snort. I was starting to like her a lot. “That's the buddy thing you see in a place like Mesa City—two idiots who think they have life by the balls.”

Bernie nodded. “When it's really the other way around.”

“Exactly.” She leaned forward. “They weren't bad guys, not inside, more just that they did stupid things.”

“Like kidnapping?” Bernie said.

Trish narrowed her eyes. “Are you turning out to be an asshole? That never surprises me.”

“If disapproval of kidnapping makes me an asshole, then guilty as charged,” Bernie said.

Wow! He was copping to the very crime we were investigating? A brand-new technique. But that was Bernie: just when you think he's done amazing you, he amazes you again.

“You don't understand,” Trish said.

“Then explain.”

She checked her watch. “I've got to be getting back.”

“Back to where?”

“Texas,” Trish said. “I'm living in Texas now. Didn't you see my license plate? What kind of detective are you?”

What was this? Bernie flinching slightly? I must have imagined it.

“I need a little more of your time,” he said.

“How about paying for it?” said Trish.

Bernie's face hardened. Much better than flinching, in my opinion. “I don't like to do that,” he said.

“No one likes to pay for anything,” said Trish. “If I've learned one goddamn thing in life, it's that.”

“You're misinterpreting,” Bernie said. “The reason I don't like to pay is that it changes the information I get.”

“Huh?”

“People tend to say what they think I want to hear.”

“Yeah?” said Trish. “Well, I don't have the first clue what you want to hear.”

Then came a bit of a surprise: Bernie laughed. What a beautiful sound! I could listen to it all day. Once—this was on a case we worked at a strippers' convention, too complicated to go into now—one of the ladies started laughing in just that way, like it would last all day. Then with no warning, laughter changed to tears. One of the scariest moments in my career, so I was glad when Bernie put a lid on it. He took out his wallet.

“How's fifty?” he said.

“Halfway there.”

Bernie smiled, not what you'd call the happiest type of smile, and handed over some money, I hoped not a lot. Trish tucked it down her front, something men never do. Once you start noticing the differences between men and women it never ends, but where does it lead? Nowhere I've ever gotten, amigo.

“Where do you want me to start?” Trish said. “It's your dime.”

“See?” said Bernie. “That's the problem, right there.”

Trish stared at Bernie for a moment, then nodded. “Okay,” she said. “How about Billy's nature, which was kind of sweet inside?”

“Sure,” said Bernie.

“I'm two years older,” Trish said. “I was working when Travis and Billy dropped out, had my own apartment. My stepdad could never stand Travis, and especially couldn't stand him just hanging out all day, which is what my stepdad did, by the way, so he kicked him out, and Travis came to live with me. Billy moved in soon after. Both of them paying rent, by the way. It was like I was mom, all of a sudden, a good mom who cracks the whip. Then one night I let Billy into my bed, and things started to slide.”

Trish reached into her pocket, took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one up. She squinted through smoke, caught Bernie's expression, offered the pack.

“No, thanks,” said Bernie. “No. No, thanks.”

She laid the pack on the table, not far from Bernie's hand. His hand sort of shrank back, like it was afraid. Trish took a deep drag, held it in for what seemed like a long time, and then let it out in a smoky kind of sigh.

“By the time I . . . got back to the light, it was three years later and I'd kicked myself out, kicked myself all the way to Louisiana. Got married, made some new mistakes, got divorced, ended up in Texas with a good job.”

“What's that?”

“I'm a service tech at an auto repair shop,” Trish said. “Unemployed at the moment.”

Bernie gazed at his hand, then at the pack of cigarettes.

“Help yourself,” Trish said.

Poor Bernie! You could see how much he loved smoking from the little ceremony that happened next: unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, striking of the match, hand cupping the flame, that first inhale. I'd been in a church once—briefly—and this reminded me of things I'd seen there; in rapid passing, it's true.

And now when he looked at Trish he seemed friendlier, as though he'd known her for a long time. “Tell me about the sweet side of Billy.”

Trish thought for a moment or two. “He brought me coffee in bed. And . . . things like that. But the drugs wrecked everything, like always. And the two of them started up on their stupid life of crime.”

“What kind of crimes?”

“Like the Three Stooges, missing one.”

“Meaning they always went wrong.”

“Pretty much.”

“In a violent way?”

Trish shook her head. “At least they were smart enough to know they weren't cut out for that. If there was violence, they ended up on the receiving end.”