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  I need to see his body. That’s the only way to get the idea that’s stuck in my throat through my thick skull. I can see his hunter green Jeep Cherokee sitting in the center of a wrestling ring of yellow POLICE LIMIT tape.

  A half-dozen cops lean, crouch, and squat around the Jeep. I don’t pay attention to what they’re doing, but I assume they’re dusting for fingerprints, labeling evidence, snapping pictures.

  I bend down and lift the yellow tape to step under it when a hand presses on my shoulder.

  “You can’t come in here.”

  I stand, coming face-to-face with a plainclothes detective. He’s a few inches shorter than me and has a wispy pompadour. I must look distraught because the detective seems more sympathetic than annoyed. He introduces himself, but I don’t hear him. I can’t feel the cold air, but I see the detective’s breath when he speaks.

  Ron’s body isn’t in the Jeep. What I see instead is his brain vomited across the passenger window. From where I stand I can make out little isosceles triangles of bone in the blood and brain matter. The images sear into my memory in the brief moments before the plainclothes detective steps in front of me to block my view.

  Talking in a soft tone, the detective guides me to the elevator. I don’t hear anything he says. He tucks his business card into my palm. I nod at nothing in particular and step into the elevator.

  From those moments before I was ushered to the elevator, what I read in the newspaper the next day, and what the woman who found Ron’s body that morning told me, these are the details I have gathered:

  The Jeep was still in its parking spot. The engine was running and the car was in drive. Music was playing either from a CD or the radio. Only the driver’s window was rolled down. Ron was not wearing his seat belt. The bullet went through Ron’s left temple. The gun was found on the floor between his legs.

  The last person who saw Ron alive was the security guard at the front desk. Ron had been working late on a project with our boss, Keith. Other than a goodnight from the security guard, Keith was probably the last person to talk to Ron.

  Ron signed out at the front desk at six o’clock, at least a half-hour after everyone else in the building—not including the cleaning crew—had gone home. No one knows what happened after he got into his car. He may have died two minutes later, or an hour.

  No one else entered that level of the parking garage until just before seven-thirty the next morning. Beatrice Jenkins, a sweet woman in her sixties from Account Services, parked a few spots away from Ron’s Jeep. She saw the blood on the passenger window and walked around the car and saw Ron’s body slumped in the driver’s seat.

  The police found a sealed, unaddressed Paine-Skidder envelope behind the driver’s visor. Ron’s suicide note was inside. It was typed, but signed by Ron.

  There were no signs of anyone besides Ron having been there when he died. No fingerprints that didn’t belong to someone the police expected to be in or around the car.

  The police had no reason to suspect murder.

  But I wanted to know why the car was in drive. Why Ron decided to kill himself at work. And why anyone would type a suicide note.

  Chapter 6

  Funeral

  After going down to the parking garage to see Ron’s body and meeting the detective, I go right to Eve. Her eyes are red, which seems odd since she didn’t know Ron at all, but then again it seems like every woman in the building is crying. Ron was younger than a lot of the sons of women at Paine-Skidder.

  I come in without knocking and sit in Eve’s visitor chair. “Can we get outta here? Not to… you know. I just—I need to get out of this place.”

  “We can’t. I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. You have to go. I’ll call you tonight.”

  “What are you talking about? I need you.”

  Her eyes dart around, looking behind me. “Bobby, I mean it. Go. Please.”

  I curl my lip angrily and punch the side of her cube before stomping out and pouting my way back to my own.

  Eve has been a hit-or-mistress of late (she no longer met the technical requirements for a mistress once Nancy dumped me, but I was fond of the term). One day, she would be all over me and the next day, I couldn’t get so much as a high-five from her. Some nights she couldn’t wait to see me, some nights we’d make plans and she wouldn’t show up or answer her phone. Buy me a nice lunch one day, nod to me in the hall like an acquaintance the next. Either she was two different people, or I was.

  I knew nothing about Eve’s family life; her background, her secrets. I tried to find out, but she wouldn’t yield an inch. Handling the two faces of Eve didn’t upset me much because I honestly didn’t know what I wanted from her. I doubted that bringing her home to meet my parents would go over well. My mom wasn’t fond of tattoos and weird piercings, and I figured that Eve being in her forties was the age-equivalent of bringin’ someone with a green Mohawk home.

  But as pathetic as it sounds, with Nancy gone and Ron in a body bag, Eve was the only friend I had.

  * * *

  Sitting in church with my boss Keith, my supervisor Suzanne, and dozens of other employees, I try not to think about what the inside of Ron’s head looked liked sprayed across his car’s interior. I’m glad it has to be a closed casket. I want to remember Ron smiling, laughing, being ridiculous.

  I somehow lost the wallet-sized picture of Ron in the white dress shirt. I spent an hour last night trying to find it. I know I haven’t taken it out of my wallet since he gave it to me, but I have no idea when I saw it last. That picture is really how I want to remember him.

  Ron’s mother doesn’t look like she’s been crying. She looks exhausted. She has a stern face, like the kind of woman who would yell at her child in a mall and who would make grown men would snap to attention in case she were addressing them. She works nights, so I haven’t met her before.

  The girl standing beside Ron’s mother has to be Helen. She looks like she’s been crying a lot, maybe even throwing up. I doubt I’ll catch a glimpse of the smile that Ron claimed transformed her normal face into a beautiful one.

  Instead of saying a prayer while kneeling in front of Ron’s coffin, I recite lines from Ghostbusters II in my head. That’s what Ron would want. I choose a beautiful Bill Murray monologue that I know Ron loved.

  “I’m Bobby. I was doing a sketch show with Ron. I’m sorry for your loss,” I say when I reach Ron’s mother. I try to hug her, but she opts for a rather firm handshake.

  As I step over to Helen, she grabs me and kisses my cheek twice. “I wish we’d met in a less shitty way. Ron talked about you a lot. We should hang out sometime.” Her voice is strained, her makeup smeared, but I feel a welcoming warmth in her fingers. She won’t let go of my shoulders. I immediately see what Ron saw. It probably would have been love at first sight with Helen if my first time meeting her hadn’t been a few feet from my best friend’s remains.

  Walking back to my pew, I think about Helen’s ex, Theo. Ron despised him, and I’m sure Theo resented Ron. As I return to my seat and sit down next to my boss, I stop grieving. Theo had a motive. Ron took away Theo’s love, the girl he was planning to marry. Maybe Theo got his revenge by taking Ron’s life.

  No more tears. I know now I have work to do. Ron’s killer is out there living his life, and no one is looking for him. It’s up to me to find him. I have one suspect and one motive. That’s all I need.

  PART TWO

  Chapter 7

  A Bat, a Gun, and Cody Wan Kenobe

  After driving by Theo’s place in Telford to make sure his car is in the driveway, I park a quarter-mile down the road and walk back to his house. I don’t want anyone who sees what I’m about to do to give my license plate number to the police.

  My heart thumps against my ribs as I get close; I feel like I’m about to step onstage and deliver my first line. This will be a quite a performance, pretending I’m a tough guy with fighting experience and not just a nerd who was spared from repeated beatings in grade s
chool because my best friend’s family was in the mob.

  Before a show, my old sketch partner Owen and I used to say a bastardized version of the announcer’s test from Radio Central New York from the forties. Jerry Lewis made it famous as a tongue twister. I taught it to Ron the last time I was with him. It helps me focus and relax.

  I whisper the announcer test to myself to calm my nerves as I walk. It goes from one to ten; you say one, then one and two, then one, two, and three, etc.:

  One hen

  Two ducks

  Three squawking geese

  Four corpulent porpoises

  Five limerick oysters

  Six pairs of Revlon tweezers

  Seven charging Macedonians in full battle array

  Eight brass monkeys from the deep, dark crypts of ancient Egypt

  Nine peripatetic, paraplegic old men in wheelchairs with a marked propensity toward procrastination and sloth

  Ten lyrical, spherical, diabolical denizens of the deep who quiver the quo of the quay, all at the very same time.

  I see two possible outcomes: One, Theo shoots me in the chest. I die and get to ask Ron whether or not he killed himself. Two, Theo punches me, takes my bat, and breaks various bones with it. As usual, I’m a knight-errant. At least this time I have a woman’s honor to defend, and a sword of sorts.

  What is probably the evening news flickers in the half-dozen houses I pass on my walk to Theo’s. The houses are spread out enough that if I’m quiet, Theo’s neighbors may not know anything is happening to him at all. My South Philly eyes never seem able to adjust to this rural brand of darkness. As a child, I learned to sleep with street lamps streaming in through the windows. Now, I can barely make out the shape of the bat I’m holding in front of my face.

  The cool spring air tingles the back of my neck and my scalp under my hair. Even though this is a residential area, I have a small but growing fear that a wild cougar will leap out from behind a shed and maul me to death. A monkey could drop from a tree to eviscerate me while masturbating with his feet. An emu might bob up and poke my eyes out with two squishy pops.

  Avoiding the jungle predators of Telford, I approach Theo’s Mustang. In the dark, I can’t see the shine from the wax job I noticed the first time I had visited him. His ‘stang is what guys like him call “cherry.”

  Tapping my bat against the driver’s side window, I practice the angle of my swing like I’m in the on-deck circle. I glance up at Theo’s house and see the glow from what is probably a Girls Gone Wild DVD.

  Taking a deep breath, I swivel my hips and bring the bat across my body and into the window. The crunching squeal of glass shattering into thousands of tiny cubes replaces the serene symphony of crickets. I feel a near-sexual release of tension throughout my body.

  Still no movement from inside Theo’s house. I line up my second shot, the rear driver’s side window, and let ’er rip. The window doesn’t completely shatter this time, so I have to scrape the bat around the border of the window to knock the stray chips into the car. I’m a little OCD in my destruction.

  A shadow streaks across Theo’s living room window. I stand behind the Mustang, bringing my Louisville sword down on the rear windshield. The glass buckles, cracks spidering across it in asymmetrical snowflakes. The defroster wires keep the structure of the windshield together. I bludgeon the beveled rectangle again and again until the whole plate falls into the backseat.

  Theo storms onto the porch. He hefts a large shotgun to shoulder level, aims at me, and cocks the hammer.

  “Hey, Theo.” I wink at him, strolling around the car to smash the rear passenger window. “Nice car.”

  “Don’t move.”

  “Why? Is there a spider on me?” I lift the bat.

  Theo takes a step toward me. “You break that window, I pull—”

  I break that window. Adrenaline chugs inside me. The defiance intoxicates me. This is how I wish I could be with Keith.

  Theo advances, his eyes locked on my chest. He stomps down the steps and stops a few feet from the front bumper of his now un-cherry Mustang. “You’re on my property. Trespassing. By law, I can shoot you in self-defense.”

  “I’m well aware of that. But thanks for the warning.” I whack the front passenger window so hard that bits of glass fly through the hole that used to be the driver’s side window.

  Theo inches forward and I see that his finger rests on the trigger guard, but not the actual trigger. “You think I’m kidding?”

  I don’t. I can barely hear him over the percussion of my own heartbeat in my ears. He seems like he’s gathering the nerve to shoot me. My life could end in moments. What scares me is that most of me hopes he can muster the courage to do the deed. I thought I had come to avenge Helen, but maybe I came for the same reason she had: to be punished. “Do what you gotta do.”

  Theo looks squeezed by fear. He didn’t expect me to call his bluff.

  I start chopping at the front windshield like it’s a redwood. Theo slides toward me until the barrel of his shotgun is pressed against my chest. “If I pull this trigger, it’ll blow your spine into the trees. She really worth it?”

  I lower the bat and look into Theo’s eyes. My chest rattles against the shotgun like teeth chattering in the cold. “Look, we both know you’re not gonna kill me.” He’s on the fence, and I hope the power of suggestion will keep my “spine out of the trees.” I wonder if he detects the faint quiver in my voice. “If you were, you’d have done it already. You’re afraid you don’t know the law as well as you think, that you might end up in prison for life for killing me. You’re probably right. This car really worth it?”

  Theo keeps the shotgun pressed to my chest and takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly through pursed lips. I think this is how they teach you to breathe before you squeeze the trigger at a shooting range. “You know you’re gonna pay for what you just did.”

  “How about this: throw the gun in the house, I’ll lose the bat, and we can have the fight you wanted to have last time I was here?”

  Theo stares at me for a long time. He blinks hard, then lowers the shotgun.

  I breathe for what seems like the first time in over a minute.

  Without breaking eye contact, Theo rips the bat from my hands and tosses it on his porch. He lays the shotgun in his doorway, then runs at me like a pro wrestler bouncing off the ropes.

  When he’s a foot from my face, his arm swings around and his fist bashes into the side of my cheek with a force that knocks me to my knees.

  I don’t remember his fist making contact. I remember him rushing toward me and then being on my knees. So I might have blacked out for an instant. I touch the source of the stinging in my cheek just as Theo kicks me in the gut. I roll onto my side in the fetal position, drooling in the dirt.

  “Get up so I can put you down again.” Theo’s spit hits the collar of my shirt.

  I take my time rocking myself onto my knees. The pain has made me temporarily lose my bearings, and I nearly forget to fight back.

  “Come on, pussy. Faster.”

  I push off and get to my feet, but fall to one knee before Theo can throw another punch.

  “Get the fuck up! Now!” He grabs my hair and pulls me to my feet, uprooting a dozen precious strands in the process.

  Time slows. I see Theo bring his arm up to clobber me. I have a window of maybe a second to make a decision before I’m back on the ground. As Theo’s arm reaches back for a full swing, I see a cloudy blue oval in the corner of my vision. It’s Cody, or a memory of him, saying “The windpipe. You chop right there, cut off his air supply, and he’s helpless.” I feel like I’m in Return of the Jedi.

  My hand soars across the space between Theo and me and lands in the center of his Adam’s apple. His punch hits my left Tricep at the same time.

  Theo’s hands cover his throat. He gags and doubles over. I punch him in the top of the head, which really hurts my knuckles. He collapses forward like a drunk, head on the ground and ass i
n the air. I take a step back and kick him in the ribs where Helen’s bruises were. He tries to scream but hasn’t yet regained his wind. I crouch and punch him in the jaw with all my might. I don’t know if I have the correct punching form, but these blows really hurt my hand.

  Theo lies on his side, eyes closed. I taunt him but he doesn’t respond.

  I grab my bat from the porch. Kicking Theo onto his back, I step on his right forearm to keep it still. He whimpers, looking up at me in a daze. I spit in his face, which seems to instantly sober him.

  “You don’t hit women. Ever.” I slam the bat down on his hand, expecting to hear the crunch of splintering bone. Instead I hear a soggy thud, as if I’d just hit the dirt. Theo springs up like a plastic skeleton in a haunted-house coffin. His garbled scream scares me so much I drop the bat.

  He grabs at his broken hand. I kick his hand away and step on his forearm again, picking up the bat. I clobber his broken hand twice more. It already looks swollen and purple. When I step away, I regard him with pity. He lies on his back, rocking in pain, cradling his demolished hand, crying like a child.

  I massage my hand, which aches where I broke it from punching the wall a couple years ago. Maybe that’s why it hurts when I punch.

  I have the urge to blurt out, I’m sorry! What I actually say is, “If you ever touch her again, I’ll cut your hand off.” Resting the bat on my shoulder like a homerun hitter, I turn and walk toward my car.

  * * *

  This encounter with Theo happened two months after Ron’s funeral and two months before I get my Five Years of Service award.

  But several important things happened between the day of Ron’s funeral and the day I took a bat to Theo’s car and hand.

  Let me get you up to speed.

  Chapter 8

  Theo Russer

  Right after Ron’s funeral, I go back to work and tear my cube apart looking for that picture of him. I final give up my search and kick over my chair over in frustration.